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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF. CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 

MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


^:m 


THE 

T>INGBAT  OF  ^ARCADT 


By 
MARGUERITE  WILKINSON 


New  Voices 
Bluestone 


THE 

T>INGBAT 

of 


BY 

MARGUERITE  WILKINSON 


LONDON:  ANDREW  MELROSE,  Ltd. 

3  YORK  STREET,  COVENT  GARDEN,  W.  C. 
1922 


% 

^ 
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Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


Copyright,  1921 
By  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Copyright,  1922 
By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


Set  up  and  printed.    PubllsJud,  March,  ig22 


CONDE  NAST  PKESS      GREENWICH,  CONN. 


This  is  a  book  of  memories.  It  tells 
how  Jim  and  I  traveled  on  singing  rivers 
and  blue  bays  in  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady^ 
The  Royal  Dingbat,  and  The  Long  Canoe 
and  on  roads,  brown,  yellow,  and  white, 
in  Frankie  Ford  and  Rover  Chug-chug, 
It  is  a  most  personal  record  of  small,  but 
sprightly,  adventures.  It  is  dedicated  to 
my  cousin,  Poultney  Bigelow,  the  only 
other  vagabond  in  my  family,  and  to 
his  wife,  Lilian  Bigelow. 


WM  mo'3 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

(tJM}^  MOST  cordial  thanks  for 
permission  to  reprint  this  mate- 
rial in  this  book  are  due  to  The 
Editor  of  Scribners  Magazine^ 
who  first  gave  most  of  it  to  the 
public. 


[I] 


[I] 

To  LIVE  thirty  years  without  ever  feeling 
the  full  energy  of  the  sun,  the  rigor  of  wind, 
the  sweet  instancy  of  rain — that,  you  may 
say,  would  be  a  tragedy.  Or  perhaps  you  will 
say  that  it  would  be  impossible.  But  it  is 
not  impossible.  It  was  my  tragedy.  I  did 
not  know  sun  and  wind  and  rain  because  I 
had  always  taken  them  for  granted.  My 
body  had  suffered  and  enjoyed  them  dully 
and  half-consciously,  being  carefully  pro- 
tected from  infancy  to  the  years  of  indis- 
cretion by  a  house,  clothing,  and  the  customs 
of  good  society.  In  a  spiritual  sense  I  had 
lived  most  of  my  life  indoors.  To  be  sure,  I 
was  acquainted  with  nature — spelled  with  a 
capital  and  put  inside  quotation  marks. 
There  is  a  great  gulf,  however,  between 
acquaintance  and  friendship.  I  could  look 
back  to  the  days  of  my  childhood  when  the 
sane  delights  of  dust  and  puddles  were  well 
known  to  my  small  feet  in  spite  of  parental 
prohibitions.  I  enjoyed  a  beautiful  view  when 
it  was  not  pointed  out  to  me  and  I  had  sense 
enough    to    dislike    people    who    came    and 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 


"quacked  beside  me'*  in  the  woods  after  the 
manner  described  by  Rupert  Brooke.  In 
quiet  fields  I  was  often  touched  by  beauty 
that  I  did  not  analyze.  Times  came  when  a 
great  congregation  of  the  clouds  in  the  wild 
air  currents  high  above  me  thrilled  me  with 
the  marvel  of  a  storm.  But  greater  things 
than  these  I  had  not  found  in  nature,  and 
deeper  things  than  these  I  had  not  known 
when  I  was  thirty  years  of  age.  I  knew  people 
much  better  than  I  knew  Nature,  who  has 
been  the  condition  of  their  life  from  the 
beginning,  who  is  the  everlasting  enemy  and 
the  everlasting  friend. 

Since  I  was  thirty  years  old  I  have  been 
intimate  with  the  open  world.  I  have  felt 
the  sun  putting  the  scent  of  sunburn  upon 
my  body  and  the  color  of  life  into  my  mind. 
My  shoulders  have  been  thrust  against  the 
wind  with  a  hardy  and  joyful  will  to  over- 
come it;  my  skin  has  tingled  with  it;  my  lungs 
have  been  greatened  with  breezes.  The  rain 
has  cooled  my  forehead  and  throat  and  made 
moist  tendrils  of  my  hair  and  softened  my 
voice.  I  have  not  killed  Hons  in  the  jungle 
as  Roosevelt  did,  nor  suffered  in  the  polar 
seas  as  Shackleton  did.  But  I  have  known 
the  chimeras  of  darkness;  I  have  borne  the 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  5 

lasping  hardships  of  heat  and  cold  and  pain. 
1  have  been  hungry  for  several  days  at  a 
time  and  thirsty  hour  after  hour.  I  have 
been  in  the  open  without  even  a  tent  for 
shelter  week  after  week.  I  have  learned  to 
strive  for  that  conquest  of  nature  in  myself 
wiich  begins  with  realization  and  ends  with 
the  sublimation  of  all  the  forces  of  life  for 
ends  most  wise  and  serene.  Without  that 
conquest  Nature  is  the  everlasting  enemy; 
with  it  she  becomes  the  everlasting  friend. 
I  have  tried  to  let  the  sun  strike  fiery  white 
through  work  and  play,  to  let  the  wind  blow 
clean  and  strong  across  stale  ways,  to  let 
the  fertile  rain  fall  insistently  upon  life's 
barrenness. 

I  may  have  learned  some  of  the  secrets 
of  the  open  world.  They  tell  themselves 
again  to  all  that  know  them  in  the  eyes  and 
voices  and  gestures  of  others  that  know  them 
and  in  the  ways  of  their  minds.  I  wish  that 
all  mankind  were  of  this  free  masonry.  It 
is  sorrowful  to  realize  that  when  a  person 
who  is  ruddy  and  athletic  either  in  body  or 
in  spirit  enters  a  subway  train  the  sensitive 
must  feel  a  shock  of  surprise.  It  is  as  if  a 
sunflower  had  entered. 

What  if  a  great  wind,  smelling  of  salt  seas, 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 


or  of  pine  woods,  or  of  a  sage  mesa,  were  D 
go  roaring  through  the  car,  steaHng  all  ha:s 
away,  whipping  out  hairpins,  loosening  collars, 
carrying  us  all  with  it  to  the  shores  of  tie 
ocean,  or  to  unbounded  forests,  or  to  un- 
dulating prairies  and  casting  us  down  upon  tde 
earth  forspent  with  a  passion  of  surprise? 
What  if  a  great  silver  rain  descended  upon  us 
from  skies  the  color  of  gentians,  washing  us, 
caressing  us,  cooling  our  fevers,  releasing  us 
from  all  tension?  What  if  the  sun  came  cut 
upon  us  afterward  with  such  an  inspiriting 
gladness  that  we  all  danced  together  over 
boundless  open  spaces,  lifting  our  hands  and 
arms  toward  heaven,  forgetful  of  the  world? 
Is  it  not  true  that  beauty  and  happiness  would 
come  upon  us?  While  the  rapture  lasted  we 
should  be  transfigured  and  we  should  keep 
the  memory  of  that  transfiguration  with  us 
always.  For  the  soul,  that  moves  forever 
toward  God  as  the  summit  of  life  and  the 
goal  of  living,  takes  the  first  step  best,  per- 
haps, where  life  began  and  still  begins,  in 
nature;  and  passes  on  from  storm  to  storm 
and  from  peace  to  peace,  from  swollen  cloud 
to  cloud  and  from  rainbow  to  rainbow,  from 
shadow  to  lovelier  shadow  and  from  light 
to  everlasting  light. 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 


This  may  be  why  I  am  moved  to  tell  of 
my  adventures  in  the  open  world  with  my 
husband.  I  am  not  so  devoid  of  humor  that 
I  can  think  of  myself  as  a  discoverer  of  the 
anguish  and  ardor  of  life  out  of  doors.  I 
know  that  I  am  not  even  a  pioneer.  This  trail 
of  the  mind  is  worn  smooth  by  thousands 
who  made  it.  But  nobody  else  has  traveled 
on  it  with  my  body,  my  mind,  my  heart. 
As  I  see  it,  it  is  unique.  The  joy  of  the  way 
comes  back  into  my  consciousness  again  and 
again  and  thrusts  itself  upward  through  many 
intellectual  disciplines,  asking  for  a  chance 
to  be  spoken  with  my  lips.  I  am  like  the 
proselyte  of  a  new  faith,  eager  to  relate  my 
experience.  Those  who  dislike  such  confes- 
sions should  lay  down  this  book. 

My  first  chance  to  go  out  into  the  open  with 
my  husband  came  after  a  long  winter  of  dis- 
content, after  a  sharp  struggle  with  poverty, 
after  a  period  of  sorrow  and  anxiety.  Jim 
is  a  teacher.  He  had  no  summer  work  that 
year.  It  was  necessary  to  live,  somehow, 
until  school  began  again  in  the  autumn. 
Poets,  also,  have  to  keep  body  and  soul  to- 
gether in  June,  July  and  August.  We  had 
very  little  to  live  on.  We  longed  for  rest, 
change,  adventure.  We  could  think  of  nothing 


8  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

that  would  cost  less  than  two  months  out  of 
doors.  To  be  sure,  I  had  never  done  any 
camping.  I  had  never  even  lived  on  a  farm. 
But  Jim  knew  the  whimsical  windings  of 
rivers  and  he  understood  boats.  We  decided 
to  spend  our  vacation  floating  down  a  river. 
We  were  living  in  the  West  at  the  time,  and, 
for  some  reason  unknown  to  us  even  now, 
we  chose  the  Willamette  River  in  Oregon. 

Anybody  who  looks  on  the  map  can  find 
it,  a  short  stream  flowing  through  Oregon 
into  the  Columbia.  But  though  I  shock  the 
geographers,  I  must  tell  them  that  for  me  no 
map  can  fix  it  in  place.  For  me  it  is  a  mystic 
stream  flowing  past  a  certain  saw-mill  at 
Albany,  Oregon,  past  the  place  where  it 
slides  into  the  Columbia,  down  the  coast 
and  into  San  Diego  Bay,  thence  under  the 
continent,  emerging  in  the  Saint  John  River 
in  Canada,  flowing  through  Lake  Champlain, 
across  the  Hudson,  under  the  Atlantic,  min- 
ghng  with  the  rivulets  of  Devon  and  joining 
the  Esk  in  Scotland.  More  than  that,  if  I 
live,  I  shall  fancy  that  I  find  it  flowing  under 
the  next  river  on  which  we  travel.  It  has  cut 
a  channel  in  the  deep  places  of  my  spirit. 

Our  trip  down  the  Willamette  lasted  seven 
weeks  by  the  clock,  but  by  the  tick  of  our 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 


feelings  it  has  never  ended.  Sometimes  when 
I  am  at  rest  and  retrospective  I  can  close  my 
eyes  and  see  the  sinuous  curving  of  that  little 
river,  the  mossy  sides  of  the  great  firs  and 
maples  near  it,  the  strips  of  singing  shingle 
that  made  tunes  for  us  under  our  boat  as  we 
slipped  down  the  stream  over  the  shallow 
ripples,  the  banks  of  clean  sand  where  we 
made  our  fires  at  night  and  sat  watching 
the  thin  strands  of  gray  smoke  unwinding 
themselves  upward. 

The  trip  began  at  Albany,  Oregon,  whither 
we  had  gone  expecting  to  buy  a  flat-bottomed 
rowboat.  We  found  none  of  the  right  sort 
for  sale  at  a  price  which  we  could  afford  to 
pay,  and  were  obliged  to  build  our  own  craft, 
which  was  best,  after  all.  For  new  ventures 
new  vehicles. 

The  building  of  a  boat  would  seem  to  be 
a  difficult  and  compHcated  operation,  but  to 
the  simple  all  things  are  simple.  We  made 
our  task  as  easy  as  possible  by  working  in 
the  open  air,  in  front  of  a  lumber  mill,  on 
the  bank  of  the  river.  Our  lumber — pine 
flooring — was  cut  to  dimension  for  us  in  the 
mill.  Near  us,  while  we  worked,  were  piles 
of  sweet  yellow  sawdust  like  grated  cheese 
ready  for  the  dinner  of  a  giant,  heaps  of  honey- 


lo  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

colored  shavings,  like  the  fragrant  curls  of 
a  giant*s  daughter,  and  bundles  of  planks 
smooth  as  warm-hued  ivory.  The  mill  was 
owned  by  a  noble  old  Titan  who  had  gone 
out  to  Oregon  in  his  youth  and  brought  up  a 
family  of  sons  to  match  the  land.  In  their  com- 
pany we  worked  happily  for  three  days,  listen- 
ing to  the  whine  and  drone  of  the  saws  in  the  mill 
and  to  the  good  American  voices  of  the  work- 
men. On  the  third  day  we  finished  our  boat. 

The  actual  building  of  her  was  done  in 
a  day  and  a  half.  She  was  fourteen  feet  long 
and  two  and  a  half  feet  wide  and  the  shape 
of  a  cigar  box,  save  that  there  was  an  angle 
at  the  bow  and  another  at  the  stern  where 
the  floor  tilted  upward  to  the  top.  Not  a 
curved  line  in  her  whole  structure!  Her  sides 
were  fourteen-inch  planks,  fairly  stout.  Her 
floor  was  of  cheap  pine  boards  fitted  together 
in  the  usual  way  with  grooves  and  ridges. 
They  were  laid  on  at  right  angles  to  the  sides. 
The  two  ends,  where  the  floor  sloped  up, 
were  covered  with  planks  and  one  plank 
at  each  end  could  be  lifted  out  and  set  back 
at  will.  Thus  we  had  two  cupboards  in  which 
to  store  clothing,  food,  blankets,  tools,  kitchen 
utensils,  and  the  small  typewriter  that  is  to 
us  what  Mary's  lamb  was  to  Mary* 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  1 1 

While  the  boat  was  building  the  big  men 
in  the  mill  showed  much  kindly  interest. 
They  would  stand  around  at  the  lunch  hour 
smoking  malignant  tobacco  and  giving  us  the 
most  benevolent  advice.  I  was  a  problem 
to  them — a  woman  who  could  pound  nails 
and  was  willing  to  go  on  a  wild  expedition  of 
the  kind  that  we  were  planning.  They  would 
watch  me  curiously  as  I  filled  the  grooves 
in  the  rough  boards  with  white  lead  and  fitted 
them  into  place.  They  were  almost  as  much 
interested  as  we  were  when,  on  the  second 
day,  at  noon,  our  craft  was  structurally  com- 
plete. It  remained  to  make  her  water-tight 
and  to  paint  her. 

Some  of  the  men  advised  us  to  fill  the  cracks 
with  putty.  Others  suggested  pitch  and 
oakum.  In  order  to  be  on  the  safe  side  and 
in  order  to  accept  all  proffered  suggestions 
with  obliging  courtesy,  we  used  all  three. 
When  we  thought  that  we  had  done  all  that 
was  necessary  we  slapped  on  a  coat  of  sky- 
blue  paint,  a  rich,  conspicuous  shade  (one 
might  say  "vulgar-rich"  in  this  connection) 
and  left  her  to  dry  over  night.  The  next  day 
we  were  to  launch  her  and  begin  our  cruise. 

The  friendly  men  asked  us  to  let  the  launch- 
ing be  at  noon  so  that  they  might  see  us  off. 


1 2  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

So  Jim  spent  the  morning  putting  the  finish- 
ing touches  on  a  pair  of  rough  wooden  oar- 
locks whittled  out  of  two  small  blocks  of 
pine,  and  arguing  with  me  about  an  appro- 
priate name  for  our  floating  palace.  We 
wanted  her  name  to  be  both  romantic  and 
humorous.  It  happened  that  Jim's  favorite 
slang  word  at  the  time  was  "dingbat'*  of 
Sunday-comic-supplement  origin.  To  him  it 
expressed  the  final  degree  of  insignificance. 
He  remarked  casually  that  we  ought  not  to 
be  disturbed  about  a  name  for  such  a  poor 
little  "dingbat"  of  a  boat!  Whereupon  we 
suddenly  agreed  that  she  should  be  called 
"The  Dingbat"  and  that  her  port  was  Arcady. 
Hence,  "The  Dingbat  of  Arcady." 

This  decided,  the  choice  of  a  fluid  suitable 
for  her  christening  troubled  us.  Champagne, 
we  knew,  was  the  conventional  thing.  In 
those  days  it  could  be  had  for  its  proper  price. 
But  we  could  not  afford  to  treat  the  eight 
or  ten  friendly  men  and  to  favor  the  inanimate 
'Dingbat  with  such  an  expensive  drink  while 
permitting  the  animate  palate  to  suffer  thirst 
— that  would  have  been  insulting.  Any  cheap 
drink  of  the  hard  variety  would  have  been 
vulgar  for  the  christening  of  a  boat  hailing 
from  Arcady.    Finally  we  decided  to  christen 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  13 

her  with  the  juice  of  Oregon  cherries,  than 
which  none  are  more  delicious,  and  to  add 
a  huge  bag  of  them  to  the  dinner  of  our  friends. 
At  twelve  o'clock  of  the  third  day  of  our 
stay  in  Albany  Jim  nailed  the  wooden  oar- 
locks into  place,  gave  me  the  oars  to  carry, 
and  then,  with  the  assistance  of  the  workmen, 
picked  up  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  and  carried 
her  down  the  pebbly  bank  to  the  water. 
Everybody  helped.  Even  the  old  Titan  must 
lend  a  hand.  Jim  got  in  and  took  the  oars. 
I  climbed  over  the  stern  and  sat  down  in 
my  place  on  top  of  the  pantry  cupboard. 
The  current  caught  us.  We  were  off.  We  had 
begun  a  new  hfe  that  is  not  yet  ended.  The 
men  on  the  bank  waved  and  cheered.  As  we 
looked  back  from  midstream  they  seemed  as 
beautiful  as  trees,  standing  there  in  their 
rough  strength.    They  were  John  Masefield's 

"Oregon  men  of  six-feet-seven 
With   backs    from   Atlas   and   hearts    from 
Heaven." 

By  this  time  all  who  are  wise  in  the  ways 
of  boats  will  be  wondering  whether  The 
Dingbat  leaked.  Of  course  she  did.  Slow  drops 
oozed  up  through  unsuspected  interstices 
around    knots    in    the   planks.     Small    rillets 


14  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

trickled  in  at  the  seams  and  ran  across  the 
floor.  While  Jim  directed  our  course  easily 
enough  with  the  oars,  I  worked  much  harder, 
bailing  with  a  small  saucepan  and  great  de- 
termination. In  spite  of  all  that  I  could  do 
the  water  got  ahead  of  me.  I  learned  that  I 
could  not  hope  to  keep  my  feet  dry.  I  took 
off  my  shoes  and  stockings.  Jim  followed  my 
example.  It  is  more  comfortable  and  wiser 
to  sit  all  day  with  bare  feet  in  a  couple  of 
inches  of  water  than  it  is  to  get  chilblains 
from  enforced  intimacy  with  wet  leather.  I 
might  remark,  parenthetically,  that  we  kept 
our  shoes  and  stockings  in  the  pantry  cup- 
board for  most  of  the  seven  weeks  of  the 
cruise,  wearing  them  only  when  we  entered 
towns  or  visited  farms  or  met  our  fellow 
man.  The  boat  leaked  for  three  weeks.  By 
the  time  she  was  water-tight  we  had  lost  all 
interest  in  shoes  and  stockings  for  their  own 
sakes.  We  respected  them  and  wore  them 
merely  as  a  part  of  good  manners. 

The  Dingbat  leaked  so  badly  on  that  first 
afternoon  of  our  trip  that  I  thought  it  would 
be  necessary  to  call  all  hands  to  the  pumps. 
It  was,  Jim  pulled  her  to  the  shore  while 
I  bailed  rapidly.  We  lifted  her  on  her  side 
and   poured    the   water   out.     Then    we   put 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  1 5 

pitch  and  oakum  into  the  perceptible  cracks 
— the  putty  proved  to  be  a  delusion  and  a 
snare — and  pushed  her  out  into  the  water 
and  went  on  again.  The  process  had  to  be 
repeated  several  times  that  day.  But  we 
were  not  annoyed.  The  novelty  of  the  experi- 
ence was  captivating.  The  cruise  had  begun. 
That  very  night  we  were  to  sleep  on  the 
ground.    I  wondered  what  it  would  be  like. 


[11] 


[II] 

^HEN  I  was  a  little  girl  I  despised  the 
princess  in  the  fairy  tale  who  could  not  rest 
easily  on  her  seven  quilts  of  silk  and  down 
because,  underneath  the  last  and  lowest  of 
them,  a  rose  petal  lay  crumpled.  Now  I 
have  compassion  for  her.  For  those  who 
recline  on  sevenfold  silk  and  down  spread 
between  themselves  and  rugged  reality  never 
rest  at  all.  If  there  be  no  crumpled  petal, 
the  thought  of  one  suffices  to  disturb  them. 
Pillowed  upon  a  softness  that  thwarts  or 
denies  reality  we  may  have  witless  slumber 
and  illusory  dreams,  but  valid  repose  is  for 
those  who  do  not  fear  that  which  is  hard. 
Our  rest  is  in  reality. 

Our  peace  is  in  reality.  This  thought  I 
have  found  growing  near  the  gnarled  roots 
of  trees  that  have  sheltered  me  when  I  have 
slept  in  the  woods  at  night.  I  have  found  it, 
also,  flourishing  in  the  hard  sand  at  the  heavy 
ocean's  edge.  Whenever  and  wherever  I 
have  slept  upon  the  ground  at  night  I  have 
caught  glimpses  of  it  by  the  light  of  the  first 
stars.    And  I  have  looked  at  it  again  in  the 


20  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

morning  as  soon  as  a  new  dawn  has  made  it 
possible  to  see  thoughts  growing.  I  have  tried 
to  transplant  it  into  my  mind. 

Whenever  and  wherever  I  have  found  this 
thought  growing  I  have  found  rest.  The 
ground,  the  underlying  reality  for  our  bodies, 
that  from  which  there  is  no  falling  away,  is 
the  best  of  all  beds.  It  is  the  bed  of  heroes 
before  they  die  in  battle  and  find  rest  in  it 
forever;  it  is  the  bed  of  hermits  who  keep 
vigil  for  the  souFs  sake;  it  is  the  bed  of  the 
quaint  company  of  the  poets  who  wander 
up  and  down  the  highways  of  the  world  for- 
ever, seeking  the  tunes  that  will  echo  longest 
in  the  minds  of  men  and  the  images  that 
men's  tears  will  never  wash  away.  The 
ground  is  the  bed  on  which  Christ  slept  in 
the  wilderness.  It  is  the  clean  refuge  of  the 
poor.  Resting  on  it  makes  the  body  firm, 
the  mind  joyful. 

To  find  this  firmness  and  joy,  to  achieve 
this  rest  upon  reality,  nobody  needs  to  endure 
more  than  all  manhood  and  womanhood 
should  be  able  to  endure.  Nobody  needs  to 
be  miserably  uncomfortable  night  after  night. 
Times  will  come  when  no  amount  of  foresight 
can  prevent  a  certain  amount  of  discomfort. 
But    this    humorous    hardness    merely    sym- 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  2 1 

bolizes  that  discipline  of  heart  and  mind  with- 
out which  we  reach  no  intellectual  or  spiritual 
reality.  As  a  rule,  after  the  first  two  or  three 
nights  spent  in  the  open,  aching  bones  are 
either  a  myth  or  a  stupidity.  It  seems  strange 
to  me  now  that  I  lived  thirty  years  in  a  world 
of  groves  and  wild  skies  before  I  ever  spent 
a  night  on  the  ground  under  the  stars. 

Our  first  night  on  the  ground  was  spent  in 
a  grove  of  mighty  maples.  We  made  The 
Dingbat  fast  to  a  sapling  on  the  bank  and, 
after  a  hot  supper  previously  purchased  in 
Albany  and  cooked  over  a  fire  near  the  water's 
edge,  Jim  set  about  the  task  of  bed-making. 
First  we  carried  our  blankets  and  two  long 
strips  of  heavy  canvas  up  into  the  grove. 
Then  we  sought  a  good  bit  of  ground.  At 
length,  quite  near  the  edge  of  the  grove,  we 
found  a  huge  maple  with  a  stretch  of  level 
earth  under  it  about  eight  feet  square  and 
sloping  away  from  the  foot  of  the  tree.  The 
branches  above  were  in  full  leaf — a  shelter 
not  to  be  despised  in  time  of  rains  and  a 
grateful  shade  in  hot  weather. 

I  leaned  against  the  trunk  that  we  promptly 
christened  ''our  tree"  and  watched  while 
Jim  loosened  the  earth  of  the  level  space  with 
a  hatchet.    He  made  a  hollow  in  the  middle 


22  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

of  the  stretch  of  loose  earth.  This  is  an  essen- 
tial of  comfort  in  a  bed  on  the  ground,  for 
in  it  the  hips  can  rest.  A  perfectly  flat  surface, 
even  when  it  is  well  covered  with  blankets, 
is  the  enemy  of  rest  for  most  human  beings. 
The  spine  is  wearied  when  it  is  held  at  an 
angle  all  night.  Jim  and  I  had  heard  that 
cowboys  in  the  desert  dug  such  slight  hollows 
for  their  beds  at  night.  We  did  hkewise  and 
were  glad. 

This  done,  in  about  five  minutes,  Jim  spread 
out  one  piece  of  heavy  canvas  on  the  open 
space.  Then  he  laid  half  of  another  twelve- 
foot  strip  on  top  of  it,  leaving  about  six  feet 
by  six  to  be  turned  up  over  the  top  in  case  of 
rain.  These  strips  of  canvas  prevented  the 
ground-damp  from  coming  up  to  our  bodies 
rapidly.  The  new  camper  is  frequently  sur- 
prised to  learn  that  the  chill  which  goes 
through  him  to  the  bone  comes  oftenest  from 
the  ground  under  him,  not  from  the  air  around 
him.  On  the  canvas  Jim  laid  woolen  blankets. 
On  these  he  put  a  double  cotton  blanket, — 
the  "sleep-between"  used  instead  of  sheets. 
This  could  be  washed  with  little  difficulty 
and  served  as  protection  against  the  dust 
that  always  gathers  in  camping  blankets.  On 
top  of  this  were  more  woolen  coverings. 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  23 

We  had  no  tent,  for  we  had  been  too  poor 
to  buy  one.  We  had  nothing  between  us  and 
the  heavens,  nothing  but  the  broad,  deeply 
cleft  leaves  of  our  tree.  On  one  side  even  these 
did  no  t  hide  the  sky.  On  that  side  there  was  not 
even  a  mist  to  mask  the  street  lamps  of  the 
eternal  cities  above  us  as  a  light  fog  from  the 
harbor  sometimes  veils  the  stars  that  are  New 
York  at  night.  Climbing  through  that  aper- 
ture in  the  branches  on  rays  of  starlight, 
my  vision  rose  into  the  everlasting  blue. 

There  was  nothing  between  us  and  the 
voice  of  the  river  to  deaden  the  long  sound 
of  its  chanting,  nothing  but  the  placid  air 
through  which  that  chanting  came.  My  lips 
moved  with  a  desire  to  shape  words  to  the 
tune  of  it  and  I  gathered  vague  syllables 
together  into  heaps  in  my  mind  as  I  listened, 
only  to  throw  them  all  away  again  at  last. 
It  had  to  be  a  song  without  words. 

There  was  nothing  between  us  and  the  nerv- 
ous life  that  plays  sensuously  upon  the  surface 
of  the  earth.  The  ground  whispered  when  an 
insect  moved  over  it  or  in  it.  The  hush  of 
night  was  broken,  occasionally,  by  the  pass- 
ing of  the  little  night-hunters  of  the  wood 
scurrying  across  leaves  and  twigs  to  and  from 
their  hidden  homes,  talking  with  their  quick 


24  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

feet.  Sometimes  something  fell.  Then  silence 
closed  in  again,  deeper  than  before.  The  air, 
near  the  earth  and  near  my  face,  was  moist 
and  cool  and  full  of  sober  fragrances.  I 
wanted  to  stay  awake  all  night  and  get  the 
uttermost  joy  out  of  the  experience.  But 
even  as  I  resolved  to  keep  watch  over  the 
earth  with  the  stars  I  lost  them. 

In  the  woods,  although  I  wake  earlier  than 
when  I  am  at  home,  I  usually  wake  more 
gradually  and  beautifully.  If  the  grove  be 
thick  or  the  day  cloudy,  my  first  awareness 
of  waking  may  be  the  half-conscious  answer 
of  the  mind  to  the  calling  of  birds  near  at 
hand  that  seem,  in  my  dreamy  state,  to  be 
very  far  away.  At  first  I  lie  perfectly  quiet 
with  no  desire  to  move  a  finger,  opening  my 
eyes  for  an  instant  from  time  to  time  to  see 
the  robust  trunks  of  trees  define  themselves 
and  emerge  from  vanishing  mist  or  kindly 
shadow.  Then  I  realize  that  the  tip  of  my 
nose  is  cold.  I  lift  a  hand  to  my  hair  and  feel 
that  it  is  heavy  with  dew.  I  turn  stiffly. 
I  give  conscious  attention  to  the  bird-song. 
One  by  one  more  trees  add  themselves  to 
the  number  of  those  that  I  can  see.  A  shaft 
of  keen  light  falls  through  arching  branches 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  25 

upon  the  floor  of  the  grove.  The  grass,  if 
there  be  any,  becomes  visible,  spangled  and 
stiff.  If  there  be  flowers  near  my  bed,  I  notice 
them.  Then  it  is  time  to  get  up. 

On  this  first  morning  of  the  trip  it  happened 
in  this  way,  the  waking  and  the  rising.  I 
walked  slowly  down  to  the  river,  getting 
used  to  my  legs  almost  as  if  I  were  learning 
to  walk.  The  stream  was  smooth  from  bank 
to  bank  as  if  the  ripples  still  slept.  It  steamed 
with  a  light,  white  mist.  An  evanescent  foam 
or  scum  clung  to  the  small  reeds  near  the 
shore  and  in  quiet  places  bubbles  floated. 
A  fish  jumped.  The  sun  stared  at  me  ruddy 
and  imperturbable  from  his  low  house  in  the 
East.  I  saluted  him.  Then  I  plunged  into 
the  river  and  swam  rapidly  for  a  minute  or 
two.  After  the  swim  I  gathered  bits  of  dry 
wood,  barkless  and  bleached,  like  the  bones 
of  a  tree,  and  made  a  fire  and  cooked  break- 
fast. My  mood  that  had  moved  to  an  ex- 
pectant andante  was  now  attuned  to  a  happy 
allegro.    The  day  had  begun. 

On  the  next  night  of  the  trip,  and  on  several 
succeeding  nights,  although  there  was  as 
much  beauty,  there  was  more  hardship,  for 
it  rained.  On  our  second  night  out  we  made 
our  camp  in  another  maple  grove  farther  down 


26  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

the  river.  When  we  had  been  asleep  only  a 
short  time  we  were  awakened  by  a  restless, 
unfamiliar  noise,  the  shy,  slow,  disturbed 
fluttering  of  the  top  branches  of  the  maples 
shifting  in  an  intermittent  breeze  and  the 
first  gentle  pattering  of  rain  upon  their  leaves. 
The  thought  of  a  shower  roused  us,  for,  as  I 
have  said,  we  had  no  tent.  We  put  all  of  our 
clothing  under  the  canvas  folded  on  top  of 
our  blankets.  Then  we  waited,  wondering 
how  soon  the  rain  would  fall  upon  our 
faces. 

For  quite  a  long  time  not  a  drop  of  water 
came  through  to  fall  upon  us.  The  leaves 
held  the  first  fallen  drops  until  their  surfaces 
were  thoroughly  wet.  Then  the  shower  be- 
came too  heavy  for  them  and  they  began 
to  drip.  It  was  like  William  H.  Davies'  lyric, 
*'The  Rain,"  exactly  like  it. 

"I  hear  leaves  drinking  rain; 

I  hear  rich  leaves  on  top 
Giving  the  poor  beneath 

Drop  after  drop; 
'Tis  a  sweet  noise  to  hear 
Those  green  leaves  drinking  near.** 

From  layer  to  layer  of  leaves  the  water  fell 
and  then  splashed  on  our  canvas.  The  outside 


The  'Dingbat  of  Arcady  27 

of  it  became  wet  but  it  was  an  effectual  pro- 
tection for  our  blankets.  We  had  to  choose 
between  keeping  our  faces  out  in  the  open 
and  keeping  them  dry.  We  decided  to  let 
them  get  wet.  In  the  morning  I  looked  like 
pussy  with  wet  fur.  My  hair  was  so  drenched 
that  I  had  to  wring  it  out,  but  otherwise  I 
was  warm  and  dry.  We  put  on  sweaters  and 
hunted  for  wood  dry  enough  for  a  fire.  We 
found  it  under  fallen  trunks  or  in  the  hollows 
of  trees  and  boiled  our  matutinal  coffee  while 
occasional  drops  of  rain  sputtered  against  the 
hot  sides  of  the  pot. 

Since  those  days  we  have  learned  to  carry 
calcium  carbide  which,  when  dropped  into 
water,  makes  a  gas  that  burns  well  and  will 
dry  twigs  for  a  fire  in  no  time.  In  this  way 
we  can  cook  in  the  wettest  weather.  We  have 
learned,  also,  to  dig  a  V-shaped  trench,  in- 
verted, at  the  head  of  the  bed  so  that  water 
running  down  the  slope  on  a  rainy  night  will 
drain  off  at  the  sides  instead  of  flowing  down 
one's  neck.  But  we  were  novices  in  those  far 
away  days  and  had  not  learned  how  very 
comfortable  it  is  possible  to  be  out  of  doors 
even  in  rainy  weather.  Nevertheless  we  were 
quite  cheerful.  We  were  like  children  in  our 
enjoyment  of  the  thought  that  we  had  slept 


28  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

out  all  night  in  the  rain  and  cooked  breakfast 
in  the  rain  successfully. 

When  rainy  day  followed  rainy  day  and 
rainy  night  followed  rainy  night  for  the  better 
part  of  two  weeks  I  must  admit  that  we  were 
not  always  cheerful.  Once  Jim  and  I  agreed 
that  we  would  keep  a  fire  all  night.  I  was  to 
stay  awake  and  guard  it  until  twelve  o'clock. 
He  would  have  the  second  watch.  He  needed 
rest  first  for  he  had  been  rowing  all  day.  And 
what  woman  is  not  a  sentry?  But  when  twelve 
o'clock  came  Jim  slumbered  as  deeply  as  one 
of  the  logs  he  should  have  been  chopping  into 
lengths  for  the  fire,  and,  although  he  is  usually 
the  best  sport  in  the  world,  I  simply  could  not 
rouse  him.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
turn  in  and  let  the  fire  die.  Through  all  the 
rain  we  kept  well.  Not  a  twinge  of  rheuma- 
tism, not  a  hint  of  a  cold,  not  a  sign  of  a  sore 
throat  did  either  of  us  have  though  we 
traveled  all  day  in  the  leaky  Dingbat  and 
slept  at  night  in  blankets  that  finally  got 
somewhat  damp  since  there  was  never  any 
sun  in  which  to  sun  them. 

Then  came  a  day  when  we  saw  the  sun 
again,  hot  and  glorious,  a  day  of  emeralds 
and  diamonds.  In  the  strong  light  of  that 
surprising  sun   we   saw   that   everything   we 


The  Dhjgbat  of  Arcady  29 

owned  was  muddy.  We  must  have  a  washing 
day  at  once  while  the  sun  stayed  out.  But 
we  needed  to  go  on  down  the  river,  too,  for 
we  needed  certain  kinds  of  food  that  could 
be  bought  only  in  towns.  How  could  we  do 
our  washing  and  travel  at  the  same  time? 
That  was  the  question. 

Jim  answered  it.  He  bored  a  hole  in  the 
cover  plank  at  each  end  of  The  Dingbat,  In 
these  two  holes  he  inserted  sticks  about  five 
feet  tall.  From  the  top  of  one  to  the  top  of 
the  other  he  tied  a  stout  cord.  That  was  to 
be  the  drying  line.  Then,  while  The  Dingbat 
floated  on  down  stream,  carefully  guided  by 
Jim,  I  leaned  over  the  stern  with  a  cake 
of  laundry  soap  in  one  hand  and  a  dingy 
garment  in  the  other,  rubbing  and  scrubbing 
to  my  heart's  content.  We  left  a  thin  trail 
of  suds  in  our  wake.  We  flaunted  personal 
banners  in  the  sun. 

For  a  time  the  breezes  were  the  only  ones 
to  see  them.  But  at  noon,  while  a  large  part 
of  the  wash  was  still  on  the  line,  a  canoe, 
with  two  men  in  it,  passed  us,  going  up  stream. 
They  took  several  long  looks  before  they 
could  quite  believe  what  they  saw, — a  sky- 
blue  Dingbat^  two  flushed  travelers,  a  clothes- 
line like  those  that  hang  between  tenements 


30  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

in  the  city!  Then  they  roared  mirthful  greet- 
ings and  asked  us  whither  we  were  going. 
It  embarrassed  us  to  remember  that  we  did 
not  exactly  know.  We  had  not  bothered  to 
decide  on  a  destination. 

*'To  Astoria?"  they  shouted. 

"Don't  know!"  we  answered. 

*'I  guess  not,"  they  answered,  decidedly; 
"it*d  take  you  a  year  in  that — boat!" 

It  was  at  that  moment,  I  think,  that  I 
became  aware  of  my  deep  and  undying  affec- 
tion for  The  Dingbat,  We  never  know  how 
much  we  love  our  friends  until  they  are  sub- 
jected to  the  derision  of  the  world.  And  it 
was  only  a  few  moments  later,  when  we  left 
the  bright  canoe  behind  and  rounded  a  bend 
of  the  river,  that  we  found  a  lovelier  destina- 
tion than  Astoria,  a  place  so  beautiful  that 
it  seemed  as  if  it  might  be  The  Dingbat's 
home  port  of  Arcady. 

It  was  merely  a  strip  of  shelving  pebbly 
beach  with  a  clump  of  birches  white  in  the 
dazzle  of  sun  and  flutter  of  air.  A  current 
flowed  past  the  sandy  edge  of  the  beach 
swiftly  enough  to  keep  it  clean.  A  virginal 
freshness  of  atmosphere  made  the  place  seem 
delightful  to  us  who  had  struggled  so  long 
with  rain  in  the  thick,  dark  groves.    In  all 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 


directions  was  wild,  untouched  country,  show- 
ing no  signs  of  the  presence  of  man.  What  a 
place  for  a  rest  and  a  change  and  a  froHc! 
It  was  excessively  hot.  We  decided  to  row 
on  later  in  the  day  when  sundown  made 
the  air  cooler.  Why  not  stop  and  wash 
blankets?  We  did.  We  put  on  bathing  suits, 
went  to  work,  and  to  play  in  that  gracious 
water. 

We  had  a  happy  afternoon.  I  stepped  into 
the  river  and  sat  down  comfortably  where 
the  current  flowed  past  on  a  level  with  my 
shoulders,  ducking  from  time  to  time  to  let 
it  have  the  fun  of  tugging  at  my  hair.  It  is 
inherent  in  living  streams  to  desire  to  pull 
all  flexible  things.  I  washed  the  "sleep- 
between"  and  Jim  hung  it  on  the  bushes  to 
dry.  Then  I  gave  myself  up  to  joy  in  the 
weather.  I  was  wild  with  delight  of  sun  and 
blue  water  and  solitude.  One  swim  was  not 
enough.  All  afternoon  I  ran  in  and  out  of 
the  rollicking  current.  Jim  washed  the  boat 
and  rested  under  the  birches.  At  five  o'clock 
we  folded  our  clean,  dry  things,  got  into  a 
clean,  dry  Dingbat  and  went  on  to  finish  our 
day's  cruise  and  find  a  camp  for  the  night. 
We  were  to  travel  until  about  eight  o'clock 
to  make  up  for  the  afternoon  of  leisure.    W^e 


32  The  'Dingbat  of  Arcady 

did  not  know,  then,  that  it  would  have  been 
wiser  to  remain  where  we  were. 

But  soon  after  we  were  launched  and  float- 
ing down  with  the  current  again  I  felt  a 
strange,  drowsy  pain  waking  in  my  feet.  I 
paid  no  attention  to  it  at  first.  But  it  per- 
sisted. A  sudden  twinge  when  I  moved  one 
of  them  clamored  for  attention.  I  looked  at 
my  bare  feet  and  saw  that  something  quite 
unprecedented  was  happening  to  them.  They 
were  rosy  purple  in  color  and  in  form  they 
resembled  the  chubby  feet  of  Michelangelo's 
cherubs.  I  tried  to  stand  and  discovered  that 
it  had  become  an  agony  simply  to  bend  them 
at  the  ankles.  I  sat  down  in  limp  distress. 
It  was  an  exceedingly  bad  case  of  sunburn, 
the  result  of  my  immoderate  reveling  in  sun 
and  water. 

It  was  perfectly  evident  that  we  could  not 
pitch  camp  for  the  night  anywhere  where 
walking  would  be  necessary  and  that  we  had 
better  stop  at  the  first  flat  beach.  When  we 
found  a  suitable  place  my  feet  had  already 
swollen  to  about  twice  their  normal  size  and 
it  was  impossible  for  me  to  walk.  Jim  had 
to  lift  me  out  of  the  boat  and  set  me  down 
on  the  shore  like  a  bundle.  I  was  suffering 
intensely.   We  had  no  curative  lotion  with  us — 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  ^Z 

nothing  but  a  little  lard  left  over  from  our 
cooking.  Jim  made  a  bed  on  the  beach  and 
put  me  on  it  with  my  melancholy  feet  up- 
lifted on  a  suitcase  and  the  perennially  useful 
typewriter.  It  was  long  before  I  could  sleep 
and  only  toward  morning  did  the  pain  ease 
somewhat  and  permit  a  few  hours  of  rest. 

I  was  awakened  early  by  a  shadow  directly 
over  my  face  and  looked  up  into  the  counte- 
nance, humorous  and  pointed,  the  two  beady 
eyes  and  sharp  snout  of  a  little  pig.  To  show 
him  that  I  was  not  good  to  eat  and  did  not 
intend  to  be  eaten  I  said  *'Hello!''  Whereupon 
he  replied  with  an  exquisitely  modulated 
''Oi,  oi,  oi/*  like  the  same  Greek  syllable 
without  the  rough  breathing.  After  this  polite 
salutation  he  trotted  away.  But  for  me  he 
was  symbolic.  Never  since  then  have  I  let 
intemperate  delight  lead  to  sunburned  feet. 

By  the  time  they  were  well  again  we  had 
succeeded  In  stopping  all  of  the  leaks  in  The 
Dingbat  with  pitch  and  oakum  and  we  some- 
times found  it  convenient  to  sleep  on  the 
floor  of  her  while  she  rocked  quietly  all  night 
on  the  lonely  waters  of  that  little  river.  When 
evening  came  we  would  tie  her  securely  by 
her  long  rope  to  some  sapling  on  shore  and 
then  let  her  float  in  a  cove  or  shallow,  or  on 


34  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

the  port  side  of  a  log-boom.  When  we  first 
thought  of  sleeping  in  her  in  this  way  we  cov- 
ered the  floor  with  branches  from  firs,  laying 
our  blankets  on  top  of  them.  They  made  a 
fairly  good  bed,  though  less  comfortable  than 
the  ground  in  the  forests.  Then,  one  day, 
we  met  a  farmer  who  told  us  that  there  might 
be  woodticks  in  the  fir  branches  and  offered 
us  hay  for  the  bed  instead.  Woodticks  are 
not  desirable  companions,  so  we  threw  the 
fir  branches  overboard  and  accepted  the  hay. 
We  got  large  bundles  of  it  from  his  little  red 
barn.  We  offered  to  pay  for  it,  but  he  would 
not  take  a  cent.  It  was  only  hay,  he  said. 
We  spread  it  out  gratefully  where  the  fir 
branches  had  been.  We  rested  on  it  fragrantly 
while  we  watched  the  moon  rise  in  an  un- 
veiled sky  and  light  the  water  with  a  silver 
pathway  for  a  spirit  like  Christ.  .  .  . 

By  day  we  traveled  slowly  down  stream 
with  the  current,  shifting  from  one  side  of 
the  stream  to  the  other  as  the  current  shifted, 
crossing  long  strips  of  shingle  where  the  water 
was  only  a  few  inches  deep.  Over  this  shingle 
The  Dingbat  passed  pleasantly  enough  for  she 
was  perfectly  flat  underneath.  As  an  Irish- 
man said  to  us,  "Sure,  she  would  float  in  a 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  3  5 

fall  o'  dew!"  We  could  look  down  without 
anxiety  at  myriads  of  pebbles  rolling  over 
each  other  and  grinding  themselves  smooth 
in  the  clear  water  just  below.  Enchanted, 
we  could  listen  to  the  strange  singing  of  these 
pebbles  in  the  ripples,  quite  unlike  the  shout- 
ing of  rapids  or  the  buzzing  noise  of  the  open 
rip,  not  a  loud  warning  nor  a  weird  water-cry, 
but  a  thin,  insistent  chant  like  the  remote 
murmuring  of  bees. 

Nor  were  we  nervous  when  The  Dingbat 
shot  down  rapids  suddenly,  or  bumped  into 
rocks  and  big  timber  hidden  just  below  the 
surface  of  the  stream.  The  Dingbat  proved 
to  be  well  adapted  to  the  kind  of  work  we 
had  given  her  to  do,  a  steady,  albeit  comical, 
little  craft.  Where  the  river  was  narrow  and 
deep  and  swift  she  bobbed  and  glided  along 
as  prettily  as  ever.  But  alas  for  our  unconcern ! 
One  day  while  we  were  happy  watching  the 
beautiful  curving  banks  we  came  suddenly 
upon  a  deep,  narrow  place  in  the  river  where 
the  water  gushed  through  the  channel  swiftly 
under  low,  bending  willow  branches.  On  top 
of  the  cupboard  at  the  stern  frying  pans, 
knives,  forks,  plates,  cups  were  lying.  They 
were  all  swept  away  into  the  swirling  flood! 
We  could  not  see  them  nor  reach  them  with 


36  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

sticks.  The  current  was  far  too  swift  for 
diving!  We  could  only  keep  our  place  near 
the  scene  of  their  disappearance  by  clinging 
to  the  branches.  Our  kitchen  equipment  was 
gone,  irrevocably  lost!  We  had  only  a  lard 
pail,  two  spoons,  and  a  cup  left  as  kitchen 
utensils!  Perhaps  that  is  why  we  learned  to 
make  lucky  stew. 


[in] 


[Ill} 

/  WISH  Lamb  were  alive  to  write  about 
lucky  stew.  He  could  do  it  justice.  But  he 
may  have  forgotten  even  roast  pig  by  this 
time.  At  any  rate,  since  I  am  no  spiritual- 
ist, I  cannot  expect  his  assistance.  I  must 
describe  lucky  stew  myself,  beginning  with 
the  recipe. 

HOW  TO  MAKE  LUCKY  STEW 

Put  anything  you  like  in  a  very  deep  pail 
And  pour  on  anything  you  please; 

Stir  it  all  up  with  anything  you  find 
Under  the  anywhere  trees. 

If  anybody  comes,  asking  for  dinner, 

Serve  it  with  anything  you  wish; 
But  never,  never,  never,  never,  never  forget 

To  put  a  four-leaved  clover  in  the  dish. 

That  is  a  good  recipe  of  the  conventional 
kind,  for  it  leaves  out  most  of  the  important 
information.  Good  recipes  never  tell  the 
whole  story.  If  they  did,  cooking  would  lack 
romance.  As  it  is,  cooking  is  adventurous 
work. 


40  The  'Dingbat  of  Arcady 

Consider  the  demand  for  a  four-leaved 
clover!  Sometimes  no  four-leaved  clover  can 
be  found.  Jim  and  I  find  them  only  two  or 
three  times  in  a  season,  even  when  we  camp 
all  summer,  but  we  have  lucky  stew  nearly 
every  night.  Therefore  I  have  cleverly  learned 
to  substitute  three  white  petals  from  a  newly 
opened  daisy,  or  one  long,  friendly  pine- 
needle.  These  have  a  magic  of  their  own 
quite  as  good  as  the  magic  of  clovers.  When 
good  recipes  call  for  something  which  cannot 
be  had,  the  wise  cook  simply  substitutes 
something  which  can  be  had. 

Having  found  the  suitable  substitute,  the 
camper  is  free  to  look  for  "anything  you 
please'*  and  "anything  you  like."  "Anything 
you  like''  usually  means  vegetables  for  us  when 
we  are  traveling  in  farm  country,  game  or 
fish  in  the  wilds.  In  Oregon  it  meant  carrots 
most  of  the  time,  large,  vivid  carrots,  for  they 
were  plentiful.  In  the  East  it  sometimes 
means  scraggly  rutabagas,  bursting  cabbages, 
pithy  radishes,  jaundiced  cucumbers,  bump- 
tious kohl-rabis,  ancient  beets — the  more  the 
kinds  the  merrier.  It  may  mean  sweet  corn, 
succulent  tomatoes,  delicate  peas.  We  take 
chances,  always,  when  we  go  abroad  seek- 
ing adventures.    But  we  try  to  combine  the 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  41 

raw  materials  of  lucky  stew  in  ways  that 
show  imagination,  fine  sensibihty,  and  deli- 
cate intuition.  That  is  the  secret  of  the 
recipe. 

The  vegetables,  of  course,  must  be  cut  into 
pieces  that  will  all  be  thoroughly  cooked  at 
the  same  moment.  Hard  and  antique  vege- 
tables must  be  cut  small.  Young  and  tender 
ones  should  be  added  after  the  others  have 
cooked  awhile.  The  pail  or  pot  in  which  they 
are  to  boil  should  be  filled  with  water  (''any- 
thing you  please'')  to  a  point  just  below  the 
top  of  the  vegetables,  just  so  that  they  do  not 
float.  When  they  have  cooked  thoroughly 
a  small  tin  of  evaporated  milk  can  be  added 
to  the  liquid  in  the  pail  and  thickened.  Butter 
may  be  used,  or  olive  oil.  Then  you  have  a 
dish  for  the  great  of  the  earth,  mingling 
many  aromas,  rich,  warm,  filling. 

Lucky  stew  is  best,  of  course,  if  a  surprise 
can  be  added  to  it.  A  surprise,  be  it  known,  is 
something  edible  found  when  it  is  least  ex- 
pected. Once  in  Southern  California  when  I 
was  making  lucky  stew  on  the  beach,  I  found 
a  giant  Pismo  clam  lying  calmly  near  my  foot. 
I  am  sure  that  it  was  not  the  fear  of  evil  which 
gave  him  over  to  his  fate.  Even  his  big  six- 
inch  shell  was  a  quite  serene  denial  of  error. 


42  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

Yet  I  seized  him  and  added  him  to  my  pail 
of  onions  and  potatoes.  Perhaps  he  was  con- 
tent to  perish  in  a  good  cause. 

At  other  times,  and  in  other  places,  I  have 
put  in  mussels  fresh  from  the  rocks  washed 
by  surf,  delightful  surprises.  Or,  when  we 
have  been  floating  down  rivers  like  the  Wil- 
lamette, I  have  taken  soft  little  fish,  chubs, 
suckers,  and  the  like,  that  would  be  insipid 
eaten  alone,  and,  after  parboiling  them,  skin- 
ning and  boning  them,  added  them  to  my 
stew,  thus  making  a  tolerably  good  chowder. 
One  last,  lonely  frankfurter,  one  small  scrap 
of  ham,  one  lopsided  strip  of  bacon  cut  into 
bits  will  give  a  surprisingly  delightful  flavor 
to  any  stew  of  mixed  vegetables.  And  once, 
in  Canada,  I  made  lucky  stew  out  of  a  porcu- 
pine. He  was  a  bother  to  skin,  but  I  did  not 
do  that.  His  hind  legs  were  the  best  and 
biggest  part  of  him,  and  tasted  very  good, 
like  young  spring  lamb. 

"Anything  you  wish,"  in  the  recipe,  may 
mean  toast  in  practice,  if  we  have  been  travel- 
ing regions  where  bread  can  be  bought.  What 
toast  can  be  made  over  embers  of  the  fire  that 
cooked  lucky  stew!  It  is  crisp  and  tender  and 
has  a  perfume  that  suggests  the  possible 
domesticity  of  the  muses.    The  color  of  it  is 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  43 

a  rich,  evenly  spread,  friendly  brown,  like 
the  brown  of  oak  leaves  in  autumn.  Be  it 
said  that  whosoever  has  eaten  lucky  stew  and 
toast  in  sufficient  quantities  has  dined  well. 
It  was  in  this  fashion  that  Jim  and  I  dined 
when  we  made  our  trip  in  The  Dingbat^  and 
because  we  had  only  a  pail  and  two  spoons, 
we  would  remove  lucky  stew  from  the  fire 
and  eat  it  from  the  pail,  competitively,  as 
soon  as  it  was  cool  enough.  We  bought  our 
vegetables  from  farmers  whenever  we  could; 
a  burlap  sack  full  of  all  kinds  cost  us  about 
twenty-five  cents.  Sometimes  we  could  buy 
bread  from  them  too,  and  butter.  Often  we 
had  only  triscuit  with  our  stew,  or  even 
nothing  at  all. 

Lucky  stew  is,  in  its  own  right,  a  triumph 
of  the  imagination.  But  there  is  no  law  against 
dessert.  And  for  dessert  in  the  open  wild 
berries  are  best,  small,  perfect  lyrics  made  by 
the  collaboration  of  sun  and  rain  and  sweet 
earth.  No  wild  strawberries  can  be  better 
than  those  of  Maine  and  New  Brunswick. 
They  are  borne  in  abundance  on  long,  fair 
stems  glistening  with  dew,  wearing  a  flame 
color  unquenched  by  it.  I  have  slept  where  I 
could  gather  them  for  my  fetit  dejeuner 
without  rising.    I  remember  an  upland  fallow 


44  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

in  New  Hampshire  where  the  blueberries, 
smoky,  mild,  uncloying,  are  cause  enough 
for  grace  after  meat.  I  have  torn  hands  and 
hair  without  regret  in  thickets  on  steep  and 
stony  hillsides  in  order  to  get  raspberries, 
red  and  black.  On  the  banks  of  the  Tobique 
I  have  picked  and  eaten  the  rare,  winy,  and 
beautiful  sand-cherry  or  beach-plum.  It  is 
lovely  to  look  at,  growing  on  long,  graceful 
sprays  that  spring  out  of  the  sand  and  lean 
to  it  again.  The  flavor  is  zestful  and  romantic. 
I  have  eaten  the  small  wintergreen  berry  as 
one  eats  an  after-dinner  mint.  But  the  hap- 
piest days  of  adventure  have  been  associated 
with  blackberries.  When  we  were  floating 
down  the  Willamette  in  The  Dingbat  of 
Arcady  they  kept  us  fed  for  several  days, 
once,  when  we  could  get  no  other  food. 

We  had  left  the  town  of  Salem  behind  us 
without  buying  much  food,  for  we  had  found 
out  that  it  was  cheaper  to  makeour  purchases  at 
farms  near  the  river.  But  for  one  reason  or 
another,  after  leaving  Salem,  we  found  few 
farmers  with  food  to  sell.  Also  we  were  held 
up  by  bad  weather  and  forced  to  travel  slowly. 
Therefore,  for  a  stretch  of  the  river  before  we 
reached  Newberg,  we  lived  on  strictly  limited 


The  Bingbat  of  Arcady  45 


rations.  There  came  a  day  when  we  had 
only  tea  for  breakfast  with  sugar  and  no  milk, 
flanked  (if  I  may  use  that  elaborate  expression) 
with  one  small  piece  of  triscuit  each.  We 
broke  fast  thus  lightly  at  dawn,  for  we  were 
eager  to  be  off  toward  Newberg  and  good  food. 

At  about  two  o'clock  that  afternoon,  after 
fasting  all  day,  we  saw  a  farm  near  the  water's 
edge.  I  scrambled  up  the  bank,  cutting  and 
scratching  arms  and  legs  on  stones  and  thistles. 
I  ran  across  a  small  meadow  to  the  house.  I 
was  met  at  the  door  by  a  hearty  old  lady  who 
seemed  to  be  of  Scandinavian  origin.  I  asked 
her  if  she  had  any  vegetables  to  sell  to  two 
hungry  campers. 

**I  haf  a  onion,"  she  said,  *'but  I  want  him 
for  my  dinner." 

*'Have  you  any  fruit?" 

"I  haf  a  apple." 

She  wanted  ''him"  also  for  her  dinner.  She 
explained,  as  well  as  she  could,  that  her  farm 
was  managed  for  her  by  her  brothers  who 
owned  a  neighboring  farm  farther  inland  and 
grew  all  the  fruit  and  vegetables  needed  for 
both  households,  bringing  her  a  supply  of 
necessaries  whenever  they  drove  over  to  the 
river.  There  must  have  been  a  hungry  glitter 
in  my  eyes,  for  she  looked  at  me  steadily  a 


46  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

moment,  thinking.  Then,  with  a  wrinkly- 
smile,  she  said, 

**You  eat  blackberry?'' 

I  was  almost  ready  to  eat  hay,  or  grass 
like  Nebuchadnezzar.  I  assented  eagerly.  She 
pointed  across  the  pasture  to  a  patch  of  heavy 
vines  hanging  in  a  great  clump  in  full  sunlight, 
twinkhng  with  beady  black  fruit. 

**Eat  all  you  want  and  take  all  you  want. 
Too  many  here,'*  she  said. 

I  thanked  her  with  an  enthusiasm  which 
must  have  puzzled  her.  Then  I  ran  down  the 
bank  and  hallooed  to  Jim,  bidding  him  bring 
something  up  in  which  to  carry  berries.  In 
a  minute  he  was  beside  me,  and  he  brought 
a  big  piece  of  newspaper  in  which  some  of  our 
clothing  had  been  wrapped.  Together  we 
hurried  over  to  the  clump  of  berry  vines.  We 
set  the  paper  down  and  began  to  eat. 

For  about  fifteen  minutes  we  picked  and 
swallowed  without  conversation.  I  had  never 
liked  blackberries  much  before,  but  these  were 
the  best  I  had  ever  eaten,  in  prime  condition, 
large,  plump  with  juices  from  the  rains  re- 
cently fallen,  warm  and  sugary  as  a  result 
of  several  days  of  hot  sunshine.  They  melted 
away  in  our  mouths  by  tens  and  dozens. 

When  we  had  eaten  very  nearly  as  many 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  47 

as  was  possible,  quite  as  many  as  was  wise, 
we  picked  a  plentiful  provision  to  carry  with 
us.  We  must  have  put  nearly  a  peck  into  that 
newspaper.  Then,  with  our  treasure,  we  went 
back  to  The  Dingbat, 

The  berries  agreed  with  us  well,  which  was 
fortunate,  for  we  got  little  else  to  eat  for 
several  days.  Late  that  afternoon  we  did 
come  upon  a  dairy  farm,  and  bought  a  quart 
of  rich  cream.  But  the  farmer  would  sell  us 
nothing  else.  For  dinner,  therefore,  we  had 
blackberries  swimming  in  that  cream,  with 
plenty  of  sugar.  More  elaborate  meals  might 
taste  worse. 

While  we  were  eating  thus,  poetically,  on  a 
stretch  of  sand  in  a  wild  and  wonderful  curve 
of  the  river,  with  great  firs  rising  on  hills 
well  away  from  the  shore,  it  began  to  rain. 
It  was  late.  We  did  not  want  to  travel  in 
the  rain  and  get  wet  just  at  sundown.  Nor 
were  we  sure  that  we  could  find  a  better 
place  to  cam.p  even  if  we  went  on.  So  we 
pulled  The  Dingbat  up  onto  the  beach  and 
tied  her.  Then,  since  we  had  no  tent,  since 
the  friendly  firs  were  far  away,  we  were  hard 
put  to  it  for  protection.  Flowever,  we  took 
the  ever  useful  strip  of  canvas  which  had 
served  as  a  cover  for  our  blankets,  strung 


48  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

it  over  a  rope  tied  between  two  saplings  about 
two  feet  above  the  earth,  and  pegged  out  the 
corners,  thereby  improvising  a  small,  low 
tent.  It  was  almost  satisfactory.  I  say 
"almost"  advisedly.  For  if  our  feet  were  far 
enough  under  cover  to  be  dry,  our  faces  had 
to  be  out  in  the  night  getting  wet.  If  our 
faces  were  dry,  our  feet  suffered.  This  was 
simply  the  driest  of  several  wet  ways  of 
spending  the  night.  We  took  half  a  dozen 
sticks  of  dry  wood  under  cover  with  us,  that 
we  might  be  sure  of  a  fire  in  the  morning. 
We  took  the  remainder  of  our  cream  under 
cover  too,  that  it  might  not  be  diluted  and 
spoiled.  Then,  although  sand  is  a  test  of  the 
camper  when  used  as  a  bed,  we  slept  reason- 
ably well. 

In  the  morning  we  built  our  fire,  made  tea, 
and  ate  the  rest  of  our  cream  and  some  more 
berries.  At  noon  we  lunched  on  berries 
again,  having  found  no  place  where  we  could 
make  purchases.  Toward  sundown  of  another 
day,  wearily  and  hungrily,  Jim  pulled  The 
Dingbat  into  a  httle  cove  near  a  point  where 
the  river  widens  and  where  we  could  see  two 
or  three  small  cottages  on  the  bank.  He  left 
me  in  the  boat  to  watch  our  belongings  while 
he  went  ashore  to  forage. 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  49 

Perhaps  the  saints  are  right  about  the 
value  of  fasting.  Perhaps  the  ethereal  diet 
of  the  week  just  past  had  fed  my  spirit.  I 
do  not  know.  But  I  know  that  while  I  sat  in 
The  Dingbat  and  watched  the  moon  rise  above 
dark  firs  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  while 
the  sky  was  still  blue  with  day,  a  mood  of 
wonder  and  worship  came  upon  me.  The 
lapping  of  water  against  my  boat,  a  long, 
seductive,  fascinating  rhythm,  lulled  to  rest 
all  bodily  longing,  all  desire  for  any  food  but 
beauty.  It  was  one  of  the  fine  moments  of 
realization  that  come  to  all  of  us,  when  speech 
is  impossible  unless  it  is  the  speech  of  poetry 
already  made  and  stored  in  the  mind  against 
the  time  of  need. 

It  was  the  fir  grove,  or  the  moon,  I  think, 
that  made  my  mood  vocal  for  me,  for  I  re- 
membered "The  Song  of  Conn  the  Fool"  by 
Fannie  Stearns  Davis  and  the  words  came 
to  my  Hps  inevitably. 

"I  will  go  up  the  mountain  after  the  moon, 
She  is  caught  in  a  dead  fir-tree. 
Like  a  great  pale  apple  of  silver  and  pearl, 
Like  a  great  pale  apple  is  she." 

While  I  was  murmuring  to  myself  after  the 
happy  manner  of  poets  and  lunatics,  I  looked 


50  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

away  from  the  moon  a  minute  and  across 
the  glossy  top  of  the  river.  There,  mysterious 
as  if  guided  by  an  invisible  Charon,  a  huge, 
flat-bottomed  rowboat  was  coming  toward 
me,  propelled  by  a  pair  of  oars  longer  than 
those  Jim  used  in  The  Dingbat,  When  it 
drew  nearer  I  saw  that  the  Charon  in  charge 
was  a  little  girl  about  ten  years  old.  She  was 
attended  by  several  small  brothers  and  sis- 
ters. She  pulled  alongside  and  stared  at  me 
solemnly  for  a  minute  or  two.  I  stared  sol- 
emnly at  her.  Then,  realizing  that  her  ap- 
pearance had  not  spoiled  my  happy  mood, 
I  resolved  to  share  it  with  her.  I  found  that 
I  could  speak  to  these  shy  little  strangers 
without  losing  the  sense  of  wonder  that  had 
been  large  in  my  mind  when  they  appeared. 
They  had  become  a  part  of  it. 

I  asked  them  if  they  liked  poetry  and  they 
admitted  that  they  did,  vaguely,  perhaps  with 
misgivings,  but  politely  nevertheless.  The 
idea  seemed  to  be  that  they  were  willing  to 
hke  it,  though  not  perfectly  sure  that  they 
had  ever  heard  any.  Then,  because  I  was 
afraid  that  they  would  not  ask  me  to  say  any 
poetry  for  them,  I  offered  to  do  it.  With 
grave  courtesy  they  permitted  me  to  begin. 

I  repeated  "The  Song  of  Conn  the  Fool.** 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  5 1 

Not  a  sound  broke  the  music  of  the  lines 
unless  it  was  the  lapping  of  ripples  against 
the  boats.  Five  small  faces  looked  at  me  in- 
tently, as  I  pointed  to  the  white  moon  above 
the  fir-trees.  When  I  had  finished  the  little 
girl  drew  a  long  breath.  Her  small  brother 
piped, 

''Say  another!" 

They  had  liked  it!  There  was  no  stopping 
me  then.  I  said  "Souls"  by  Fannie  Stearns 
Davis,  after  explaining  carefully  that  they 
are  a  part  of  the  mental  anatomy  usually 
discussed  in  church  and  Sunday  School,  but 
that  they  have  an  independent  existence 
outside  of  these  excellent  institutions.  Then 
I  repeated  "The  Cloud"  by  Sara  Teasdale 
and  many  another  lyric.  My  audience  re- 
mained soberly  interested,  hardly  loquacious 
in  the  intervals  between  poems. 

Time  passed  and  Jim  returned  with  food 
at  last — eggs,  bread,  butter,  vegetables.  We 
crossed  the  river  to  camp  where  there  were 
no  houses,  cooked  our  dinner,  ate  it,  and 
slept  deeply.  We  had  promised  the  children 
to  see  them  in  the  morning  when  we  went 
back  to  the  little  settlement  for  more  food. 

After  breakfast  back  we  went,  eager  to 
secure  supplies  to  carry  with  us  on  our  way. 


52  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

At  the  end  of  the  path  leading  to  the  cove 
we  met  the  Httle  girl  who  had  been  in  charge 
of  the  rowboat  the  night  before.  She  had  seen 
us  coming.  She  had  picked  a  pail  of  logan- 
berries for  us.  She  offered  them  in  appealing 
silence.  Then  and  there  I  put  my  hand  into 
the  pail  and  drew  it  out  full  of  the  rosy  fruit, 
pungent,  refreshing  and  fragrant  as  only 
loganberries  can  be. 

Together  we  went  up  the  path  to  meet  her 
small  brothers  and  sisters,  and  to  greet  her 
mother  who  lived  in  one  of  the  cottages.  It 
was  low  and  weary-looking,  that  cottage, 
almost  ready  to  bend  its  vertical  lines  to- 
gether and  slump  upon  the  earth.  In  the 
door  stood  the  mother  of  the  children  who 
had  been  my  audience,  a  tired,  kind-seeming 
woman.   She  came  out  to  meet  us. 

"Are  you  the  lady  who  recited  for  the 
children?'' 

I  admitted  that  I  was  and  wondered  whether 
I  was  to  be  scolded. 

"They  didn't  go  to  sleep  till  midnight  for 
talking  about  it/'  she  said.  "I  couldn't  make 
'em  stop." 

"I  am  afraid  you  don't  like  me  very  much 
if  I  have  kept  your  children  awake,"  said  I, 
apologetically,   with   vivid   memories   of  my 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  ^i, 

own  mother's  feelings  when  any  of  her  six 
wodd  not  slumber.  But  this  mother  re- 
assured me. 

"Would  you  say  the  poetry  for  me?''  she 
asked  wistfully. 

Wnat  a  chance!  Of  course  I  would.  She 
sat  down  on  the  sloping  steps  of  her  porch 
and  gathered  her  brood  around  her.  I  stood 
in  bread  sunlight  in  the  path  below.  My 
hair  was  done  in  a  tight,  ugly  knot.  My  face 
and  hands  were  stained  with  the  juice  of 
loganberries.  I  wore  a  khaki  skirt  dingy 
with  smoke  from  many  fires  and  an  old  shirt 
of  my  husband's  with  the  collar  loose  at  the 
throat  and  the  sleeves  chopped  off  informally 
at  the  elbows.  A  city  audience  would  have 
stopped  and  looked  at  me,  but  would  not  have 
listened  with  any  degree  of  respect.  My 
audience  by  the  riverside  listened  with  plea- 
sure. And  never  have  I  found  greater  pleasure 
in  speaking  the  lines  of  a  poem.  I  said  every- 
thing that  I  could  remember. 

When  my  programme  came  to  an  end  the 
mother  went  into  the  house  and  brought  me 
a  thank-offering,  a  dozen  cucumbers,  a  loaf 
of  fresh  bread,  a  small  pat  of  butter,  carrots 
and  lettuce.  She  would  take  no  money  for 
them.  So,  with  peace  in  our  hearts,  we  thanked 


54  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

one  another  for  such  gifts  as  we  had  been  able 
to  give.  Then  Jim  and  I  got  into  The  Dir.gbat 
once  more  and  pushed  slowly  out  into  the 
current.  Five  little  figures  stood  at  the  top 
of  the  bank  to  see  us  off.  We  waved  to  them 
as  long  as  we  could.  Then  the  river  bent  and 
we  passed  away  from  them,  probably  for- 
ever. I  have  earned  my  bread,  and  also  my 
loganberries,  in  many  ways;  but  never  have 
they  tasted  sweeter  than  then,  when  I  earned 
them  by  sharing  poetry. 

Sometimes  when  I  look  back  on  sane,  de- 
lightful meals  eaten  by  the  waterways  and 
on  the  open  road  I  am  amused  by  Walter  de 
la  Mare's  little  rhyme — 

"It's  a  very  odd  thing — 
As  odd  as  can  be — 
That  whatever  Miss  T.  eats 
Turns  into  Miss  T." 

That  is  the  strange  thing  about  food,  the 
metamorphosis.  Shakespeare  was  made  of 
flour  and  green  herbs  and  the  flesh  of  beasts. 
The  greatest  living  American  may  be  made  of 
buckwheat  pancakes  for  all  that  we  know 
to  the  contrary.  Ambrosia  eaten  by  swine 
would   become  swine.    Though  we  dine  on 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  55 

roses  we  are  not  necessarily  sweet.  The  jack- 
in-the-pulpit  for  supper  would  not  make 
preachers  of  us.  And  yet — 

We  are  changed  by  our  food.  Tiresome, 
conventional  kinds  of  food  do  not  freshen 
us  as  does  the  clean,  wild,  simple  food  of 
field  and  forest.  Of  course,  in  every  com- 
munity nowadays  are  dietetic  dogmatists  who 
would  eat  old  automobiles  if  they  supposed 
that  the  essential  calories  would  be  in  them 
in  soluble  form.  There  are  cultists  who 
despise  food  because  it  is  matter.  If  it  were 
not  for  the  stubborn  fact  of  hunger,  they 
would  not  eat.  Finally,  there  are  mentally 
dyspeptic  individuals  who  devour  Freud  with- 
out being  able  to  digest  him,  when  they  should 
be  eating  apples. 

I  never  have  enjoyed  camping  trips  with 
large  numbers  of  people,  but  when  I  think 
of  all  these  poor  souls  I  am  filled  with  a 
womanly  desire  to  snatch  them  up  and  spirit 
them  away  into  the  woods  or  into  farm  coun- 
try, on  such  a  trip  as  Jim  and  I  have  taken 
together.  I  would  take  them  where  calories, 
cults,  and  psychoanalysis  are  forgotten  and 
where  every  animal  and  every  person,  in  all 
honesty  and  dignity,  is  interested  in  food. 
After  making   them   all  exceedingly  hungry, 


^6  The  'Dingbat  of  Arcady 

after  fasting  and  discipline,  I  should  like  to 
build  the  world's  finest  camp  fire  for  them 
and  make  lucky  stew. 

On  such  fare  we  have  lived,  Jim  and  I, 
when  we  have  left  the  towns  behind  us  and 
gone  out  on  the  roads  and  rivers  adventuring. 
On  such  food  we  have  thriven.  And  nothing 
could  induce  us,  I  think,  to  go  camping  with 
the  usual  luggage  train  of  tin  cans  accom- 
panied by  many  people  who  think  that  camp- 
ing means  beans.  It  is  not  in  that  way  that 
we  desire  to  be  fed  by  the  open  road.  But  to 
live  clean  and  hard,  to  get  the  sharp  savor  of 
wild  food  in  sufficient  quantities  when  we  can, 
or,  where  there  are  homes,  to  be  social  and 
neighborly  in  the  breaking  of  bread,  is  to 
have  food  and  drink  most  exquisite  and  satis- 
fying.  By  such  food  we  are  changed.  .  .  . 

Fed  and  changed  in  this  manner,  we  floated 
on  down  the  widening  and  deepening  stream 
until  we  reached  a  point  just  a  few  miles 
above  Oregon  City.  A  great  fall  spans  the 
river  at  that  point  and  to  pass  it  and  go  on 
down  one  must  go  through  the  locks.  We 
knew  this,  and  when  we  were  near  enough 
to  reach  the  dam  by  eight  hours  or  so  of  hard 
rowing,  we  made  inquiries  and  were  told  that 
if  we  could  get  to  the  locks  before  ^y^  o'clock 


The  'Dingbat  of  Arcady  57 

we  could  go  through  that  day.  Jim  did  his 
best,  pulhng  hard  on  the  oars  all  that  morning 
and  afternoon.  We  did  not  stop  to  buy  food, 
but  ate  the  last  of  our  bread  for  luncheon 
and  relied  on  being  able  to  cook  some  potatoes 
— all  we  had  in  our  sack — when  dinner  time 
came.   All  day  we  hurried  down  stream. 

After  the  long  hours  in  the  vivid  sun  we 
heard  the  roaring  of  the  falls  below  us.  Riffles 
sing  soprano  and  rapids  chant  in  alto  and 
tenor,  but  great  falls  boom  in  basso  prof  undo. 
The  current  quickened  perceptibly  as  we 
bore  to  the  left,  hugging  the  shore  as  we  had 
been  advised  to  do.  Faster  and  faster  we 
moved.  We  got  into  the  swift  guard-locks 
stream.  Jim  stopped  pulling  and  perspiring, 
his  only  care  now  to  keep  the  boat  to  the  left 
and  close  to  land.  Ahead  of  us  we  saw  the 
gates  of  the  locks.  At  the  right,  between  the 
dam  and  the  locks,  was  a  paper  mill,  evidently 
running  on  a  night  shift.  At  the  left  of  the 
locks  was  a  perpendicular  bluff  about  ten 
feet  high.  We  went  on  and  soon  brought  up 
hard  against  the  gates  of  the  locks.  They 
were  closed.  What  to  do  next  we  did  not 
know.   We  hallooed. 

At  first  nothing  happened.  Then  a  man, 
coming  out  of  the  mill  at  the  right,  saw  us. 


58  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

He  said  that  the  gates  would  not  be  opened 
until  eight  o'clock  next  morning  when  a  large 
boat  would  go  through.  We  could  not  pass 
until  then.  At  once  we  realized  our  plight. 
Bluff  to  the  left  of  us,  gates  in  front  of  us, 
falls  to  the  right  of  us  volleying  and  thunder- 
ing! Behind  us  was  a  current  up  which  only 
motor  power  could  have  pulled  The  Dingbat, 
We  could  sleep  in  her,  perhaps,  in  the  shadow 
of  the  mill,  but  that  would  mean  going  with- 
out dinner  for  our  potatoes  were  still  as  raw 
as  when  they  were  dug.  The  thought  was 
disconcerting.  The  kind  man  who  had  dis- 
covered us  realized  our  distress. 

"You'll  have  to  spend  the  night  here  if  you 
want  to  stay  by  your  boat  and  your  goods," 
he  said.  "But  wait  a  minute.  I'll  speak  to 
the  boss." 

The  boss  came  out  and  looked  us  over. 

"You  have  your  wife  along,"  he  said  to 
Jim,  meditatively. 

Jim  admitted  what  was  obvious. 

"Well,"  said  the  boss,  with  a  hospitable 
wave  of  the  hand,  as  if  he  were  welcoming 
us  to  the  dear  old  Waldorf-Astoria,  "well, 
if  you  can  get  up  to  it,  you  can  spend  the  night 
in  my  pile  of  junk!" 

We  followed  the  gesture  with  our  eyes  and 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  59 

noticed  what  we  had  not  seen  before,  several 
heaps  of  shavings  on  top  of  the  bluff  at  the 
left  and  three  sections  of  huge  iron  pipe.  Each 
section  must  have  been  about  seven  feet 
long  and  six  feet  in  diameter.  They  might 
have  been  sewer  pipes  for  a  large  city.  Jim 
looked  at  me  with  a  gleam  of  intelligence  in 
his  eyes  and  I  answered  with  an  understand 
ing  gleam.   It  could  be  done. 

"We'll  have  pipe  dreams  to-night/'  said  Jim. 

Thereupon  we  thanked  the  boss  and  ac- 
cepted his  offer.  He  grinned  and  told  the 
kind  man  who  had  discovered  us  to  help  us 
up  the  bluff.  This  friendly  soul  turned  Jut 
to  be  the  night  watchman  for  the  mill,  just 
come  on  duty.  He  crossed  a  high  bridge  from 
the  mill  to  the  bluff  and  told  us  to  pull  over 
to  the  left.  This  we  did  and  Jim  threw  our 
long  rope  to  him.  He  pulled  us  up  stream 
a  little  way  and  into  a  niche  where  the  current 
was  not  felt.  Then  he  tied  the  rope  to  a  tree 
on  the  bank  above  us.  Jim  managed  to  get 
our  blankets  and  other  necessaries  hoisted 
up  to  him  by  the  use  of  oars  and  another 
rope.  Then,  with  some  assistance,  he  scram- 
bled up  himself.  Finally,  the  two  men  to- 
gether hauled  me  up,  bumping  and  scraping 
like  a  clumsy  bundle.    We  were  landed. 


6o  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

After  that  all  went  well.  We  took  armfuls 
of  shavings  from  the  heaps  near  at  hand — 
refuse  from  the  pulp  mill — and  we  spread 
them  thickly  on  the  bottom  of  the  interior 
of  one  of  the  sections  of  pipe.  On  the  shavings 
we  spread  our  blankets,  all  but  one  which  hung 
over  the  back  of  our  strange  house.  The 
canvas  covered  the  front  opening  in  a  similar 
fashion.  Our  shelter  was  ready  for  us. 

In  front  of  the  front  door  we  sat  down  and 
built  a  fine  little  fire  of  shavings  and  small 
blocks  of  wood.  We  cooked  our  raw  potatoes, 
a  plentiful  if  somewhat  plain  dinner.  While 
we  were  eating  the  night  watchman  came 
over  to  smoke  a  social  pipe  and  chat  with 
Jim.  He  told  us,  as  men  often  do  in  the 
open  world,  the  story  of  his  adventures. 
They  made  ours  seem  rather  tame.  Once  he 
had  rolled  down  a  mountain-side  on  the  back 
of  his  horse,  breaking  so  many  bones  that  he 
could  not  count  them  all.  He  had  been  unable 
to  work  for  a  year  after  that.  But  now  he  was 
fairly  well  mended  and  glad  to  have  his  quiet 
job.  He  was  a  zestful  man,  quick  to  get  the 
sweet  of  life,  and  therefore  good  company. 
He  told  us  that  we  would  be  perfectly  safe  in 
our  queer  house,  that  the  men  who  worked  in 
the  mill  were  a  decent  lot  and  would  not 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  6 1 

bother  us.  He  bade  us  call  him,  however,  if 
we  were  in  need  of  any  kind  of  assistance. 
The  shift  of  workers  would  change  once  in 
the  night,  he  said,  and  we  would  hear  men 
coming  and  going,  but  all  would  be  well. 
He  shook  the  dead  ashes  from  his  pipe  and 
left  us. 

Then  we  crept  into  one  of  the  strangest 
shelters  ever  inhabited  by  a  teacher  and  a 
poet.  We  rested  well.  If  you  should  ever  be 
troubled  with  insomnia,  I  suggest  that  you 
find  a  large,  clean,  iron  pipe  on  a  bank  above 
a  river,  put  shavings  in  it,  spread  your  blan- 
kets out  thereon,  eat  a  dinner  of  plain  boiled 
potatoes,  turn  in  early,  and  find  your  cure! 

Early  the  next  morning  The  Dingbat  fol- 
lowed the  large  boat  through  the  locks  and 
was  left  below  the  dam,  floating  securely  on 
that  portion  of  the  Willamette  River  which 
is  said  to  be  "bottomless.'*  Every  lake  and 
stream  we  know  has  an  alleged  "bottomless" 
place.  At  some  spot  known  to  small  boys 
and  ancient  romancers  every  pond  and  river 
pours  its  floods  through  the  earth  to  the  Anti- 
podes or  draws  them  thence!  Having  lis- 
tened to  such  tales  alongshore,  I  used  to 
tremble  when  we  went  gliding  over  these  dark 
abysses.    I  did  not  care  to  sink  through  this 


62  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

perforated  sphere,  only  to  emerge  damp  and 
bedraggled  in  some  foreign  land  where  I 
should  be  unable  to  speak  the  language! 
Now  I  have  learned  to  float  upon  such  fabled 
deeps  without  a  tremor.  There  must  be  fairy 
tales ! 

We  crossed  the  "bottomless*'  part  of  our 
stream  and  made  for  the  mouth  of  the  little 
Clackamas  River  which  pours  into  the  Wil- 
lamette at  a  sharp  angle  to  it  just  below  the 
dam.  We  had  planned  to  go  up  the  Clackamas 
in  search  of  fish. 

The  stream  was  brisk  and  beautiful  though 
not  very  deep  at  the  mouth.  We  got  out  of 
The  Dingbat  and  walked,  pushing  and  pulling 
her  up  to  the  first  sharp  bend.  On  the  inside 
of  that  bend  was  a  grove  and  on  the  outside, 
on  which  side  we  stayed,  was  a  bit  of  flat 
country  with  a  few  scrubby  trees  and  bushes 
in  which  to  hide  our  camp.  We  spent  several 
days  there,  resting,  writing,  and  reading,  but 
we  found  no  fish, — none  except  the  poor, 
dead  eels  that  floated  about  in  places  where 
the  current  was  not  swift  and  near  the  edges 
of  it.  Why  there  should  have  been  so  many 
dead  eels  I  do  not  know,  unless  it  is  that 
they  die  a  natural  death  in  the  summer 
season.  Within  walking  distance  were  several 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  63 

farms  and  Jim  made  a  daily  trip  to  one  or 
another  of  them  to  get  fresh  drinking  water 
and  provisions. 

One  day  after  he  had  gone  on  this  errand, 
I  rambled  aimlessly  away  from  our  camp  and 
down  the  bank  of  the  stream.  Perhaps  I  was 
meditating  a  poem.  Perhaps  I  was  merely 
rapt  in  the  delight  of  being  fallow-minded 
for  a  while.  At  any  rate,  I  totally  forgot 
that  it  was  my  duty  to  remain  on  guard  over 
our  belongings.  When  I  came  to  myself,  like 
the  Prodigal  Son,  I  turned  back  toward  camp 
and  saw  a  sight  that  filled  me  with  terror. 
Between  me  and  the  clump  of  bushes  where 
our  food  and  clothing  were  spread  on  the 
ground  were  five  or  six  large  cows. 

In  spite  of  all  that  I  had  lived  through 
recently  I  was  a  city  woman  again,  through 
and  through.  Everything  in  me  cried  out 
suddenly  for  asphalt  and  policemen.  Here 
was  a  primitive  mystery.  Bovine  psychology 
was  somiething  that  I  did  not  understand  in 
the  least.  Cows  had  no  business  in  the  woods 
anyway. 

I  walked  toward  them  anxiously,  cautiously. 
They  lowered  their  horny  heads  and  mooed. 
Then  they  paused  and  gazed  at  me  with  a 
vulgar   curiosity   all    their   own.    One   came 


64  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

toward  me  at  a  slow  trot.  It  was  enough. 
I  had  a  Smith  and  Wesson  at  my  belt,  but 
I  am  an  incorrigible  pacifist.  I  fled.  I  forgot 
that  it  was  my  bounden  duty  as  a  good  sport 
to  protect  the  Lares  and  Penates  of  our 
sylvan  household.  I  climbed  into  the  tallest 
of  the  low  willows  on  the  bank.  I  remembered 
with  pride  that  I  had  never  been  afraid  of 
mice,  but  I  realized  with  shame  that  I  was 
afraid  of  cows.  It  was  another  proof  that  it 
is  the  unknown  which  terrifies.  Mice  I  knew. 
Even  if  a  mouse  ran  across  my  foot  I  should 
not  be  afraid.  But  if  a  cow — cows  were 
strangers.   I  climbed  ignominiously. 

For  some  time  I  sat  on  my  perch  and 
trembled  and  caught  my  breath,  not  because 
I  continued  to  be  afraid,  but  because  I  was 
heavy  and  the  branch  slender.  If  I  shifted 
my  weight  even  for  a  moment,  I  was  obliged 
to  clutch  the  trunk  of  the  tree  firmly,  for  I 
did  not  care  to  precipitate  myself  abruptly 
into  the  ranks  of  the  enemy.  I  disturbed  the 
gods  with  heathen  petitions  that  the  branch 
would  remain  attached  to  the  trunk  until  my 
husband  returned  to  rescue  me.  How  ad- 
mirable are  husbands,  I  thought!  What  large, 
strong,  valiant,  noble  creatures!  How  I  wished 
that  mine  would  return  to  me! 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  65 

The  time  for  his  return  came,  but  he  did 
not  come  promptly.  Never  before  had  he 
remained  away  so  long.  The  cows  were  walk- 
ing placidly  across  our  neatly  folded  blankets 
and  snuffing  at  our  piled-up  clothing.  I 
roared  at  them.  In  vain.  They  knew  me  for 
the  coward  that  I  was.  It  would  be  stretching 
a  point  to  say  that  they  grinned,  but  I  sus- 
pected them  of  humor.  I  broke  a  branch 
from  my  willow  tree  and  threw  it  at  them, 
doing  my  worst  in  the  way  of  a  roar  at  the 
same  moment.  One  cow  looked  up  at  me 
imperturbably  and  set  her  right  forefoot 
down  in  a  package  of  shredded  wheat  biscuit. 
Another  set  her  left  hind  foot  down  with  a 
crash  upon  our  one  small  mirror. 

A  woman's  faith  in  man,  or  in  any  man,  is 
tested  by  the  nature  of  her  outcry  in  time  of 
trouble.  I  began  to  houhoo  and  halloo  em- 
phatically in  the  hope  that  my  own  Achilles, 
my  own  Arthur,  my  own  Jim  of  the  strong 
arm  and  ready  wit  would  be  on  his  homeward 
way  and  hear.  He  was  returning  and  he  did 
come  to  the  rescue.  He  strode  rapidly  into 
camp,  carrying  a  great  water  jug  in  one  hand 
and  bearing  two  large,  well  filled  burlap  sacks 
on  his  shoulder.  The  cows  gave  one  look  at 
his  red,  perspiring,  but  determined  counte- 


66  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

nance  and  moved  off  with  deliberate  haste. 
Jim  set  down  the  sacks,  picked  up  a  stick, 
chased  the  cows  into  the  open  pasture  whence 
they  had  come,  helped  his  silly  lady  down 
out  of  the  tremulous  willow  tree,  scolded  her 
roundly  for  the  havoc  wrought,  and  then  sat 
down  to  rest. 

When  I  had  done  what  I  could,  in  a  truly 
penitential  state  of  mind,  to  set  our  dis- 
ordered camp  to  rights,  Jim  remembered  his 
burlap  sacks  and  he  opened  them  with  pride 
and  pleasure.  One  was  filled  with  excellent 
vegetables  for  lucky  stew.  The  other  jingled 
and  rattled.  Out  of  it  Jim  took  an  egg-beater, 
a  large  carving  knife,  a  big  iron  frying-pan, 
a  measuring  cup,  and  other  long-needed  cook- 
ing utensils,  all  pretty  well  worn,  but  still  in 
usable  condition.  They  had  been  given  him 
by  the  wife  of  the  farmer  of  whom  he  bought 
the  vegetables.  She  had  just  bought  a  new 
set.  We  had  not  bought  any  new  things  to 
take  the  place  of  those  brushed  off  the  rear 
pantry  cupboard  soon  after  our  trip  began. 
What  fun  it  would  be  to  have  these  con- 
venient trifles!  An  iron  frying-pan!  Now  once 
more,  we  could  have  fried  eggs  for  breakfast. 
As  Friday  said  to  Robinson  Crusoe,  "Oh, 
happy,  oh,  glad!" 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  67 

It  was  onl)  the  next  day  that  another 
farmer  gave  Jim  as  many  red  plums  as  he 
would  pick  from  a  heavily  laden  tree  and 
Jim  brought  them  home  to  me  in  a  burlap 
sack.  Not  a  cent  would  that  farmer  take 
for  them.  Life  had  given  him  more  than  he 
could  use  or  sell.  He  would  share  with  the 
poor. 

The  sense  of  life's  fruitfulness  is  one  of 
the  joys  of  sojourning  among  farmers.  It 
makes  receiving  seem  as  blessed  as  giving, 
or  rather  it  transmutes  both  giving  and  re- 
ceiving into  one  thing — sharing.  A  good 
farmer  can  give  away  a  dozen  cucumbers  with 
a  shy  off-handedness  that  minimizes  the  im- 
portance of  the  gift  and  yet  does  not  minimize 
the  pleasure  of  it.  He  does  not  expect  that 
the  bread  which  he  scatters  upon  the  waters 
will  return  to  him  carefully  spread  with  the 
exquisite  jam  of  worldly  favors.  He  does  not 
tell  us  that  he  hopes  his  gift  will  improve 
us.  He  gives  no  advice  with  it.  He  gives 
simply,  as  nature  gives,  as  the  best  poets 
give,  or  he  does  not  give  at  all. 

After  we  left  the  Clackamas  we  received 
no  more  gifts  and  had  no  more  quaint  expe- 
riences for  a  number  of  days.  We  had  come 
to  the  most  difficult  and  least  agreeable  part 


68  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

of  our  trip.  We  had  to  pass  Portland  and  her 
suburbs  before  we  could  go  on  into  the 
Columbia  and  find  wild  country  again.  The 
river  was  busy  and  industrial.  Large  boats 
cut  through  the  waters  leaving  big  waves  in 
their  wake.  No  good  camper  is  happy  under 
such  conditions.  We  made  all  the  speed  we 
could  to  get  past. 

We  arrived  at  St.  Johns  one  evening  after 
dark,  very  weary.  We  found  a  long  beach, 
none  too  clean,  near  a  pier  at  which  a  Standard 
Oil  steamer  was  docked.  In  the  darkness  we 
stopped,  went  ashore,  made  a  small  fire  out 
of  rubbish  and  bits  of  broken  boxes  in  a 
place  as  secluded  as  possible,  and  cooked  and 
ate  a  light  supper.  Then  the  question  before 
us  was  where  to  sleep.  We  asked  ourselves 
whether  we  had  better  go  on  down  stream 
that  night  or  wait  until  daybreak.  If  we  had 
not  been  tired  we  should  have  preferred  to 
go  on.  But  we  had  been  traveling  since  early 
morning  and  needed  rest. 

Slowly  and  with  great  skill  Jim  worked 
The  Dingbat  in  among  the  big  piles  that  sup- 
ported the  pier.  We  got  well  under  it.  Then 
we  moved  out  on  the  port  side  of  the  big 
steamer  so  that  she  stood  between  us  and  any 
waves  that  might  roll  in  from  the  wake  of 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  69 

passing  boats.  It  was  not  pleasant  to  be 
awakened  In  the  night  with  The  Dingbat 
rocking  madly  under  us  and  spray  flying  over 
her  sides.  When  we  were  safely  hidden  under 
the  pier,  but  near  the  steamer,  we  lay  down 
on  the  floor  of  The  Dingbat^  pulled  our  canvas 
over  us,  and  slept. 

So  eager  were  we  to  be  off  and  find  green 
country  again  that  we  awoke  very  early  next 
morning  before  the  stars  had  left  the  sky. 
As  stealthily  as  if  we  were  criminals  trying 
to  escape  a  dire  fate,  Jim  worked  The  Dingbat 
out  between  the  piles  again  and  into  the  open 
stream.  At  dawn  we  found  a  place  where  we 
could  cook  breakfast  and  after  that  we  went 
on  much  refreshed.  Since  that  night  I  have 
had  a  new  feeling  of  friendliness  for  big,  ugly, 
hard-working  boats.  I  had  traveled  in  them 
before.  But  intimacy  was  reserved  for  the 
night  when  I  rested  in  the  protection  of  a 
big,  strong,  dark  hulk. 


[iv] 


[IV} 

It  was  not  long  after  that  that  we  turned 
into  the  Willamette  Slough,  a  poor  relation 
of  the  Willamette  River,  a  sluggish  and  dirty 
stream  that  crawls  by  inches  into  the  superb 
Columbia.  The  soul  of  the  river  was  the  soul 
of  a  strong  man,  free  and  able  to  do  brave 
work  in  the  world.  The  soul  of  the  slough 
was  a  spirit  in  prison.  It  was  burdened  with 
all  that  the  river  cast  into  it  and  held  back 
by  the  power  of  the  Columbia  below  it  and 
by  the  very  slight  bending  of  the  ground  under 
it.  Here  was  no  laughter,  no  triumphing. 
The  surface  was  dull  and  under  it  was  mud. 
The  people  who  lived  on  the  banks  differed 
in  sad  and  subtle  ways  from  the  people  who 
lived  on  the  shores  of  the  river  above.  But 
I  must  not  forget  that  it  was  here  that  we  met 
a  man  who  helped  us  to  believe  in  something 
that  we  call  ''salvation  by  mirth.*' 

When  I  speak  of  "salvation  by  mirth"  I 
do  not  mean  the  solemnly  persistent  cheer- 
fulness of  Polyanna.  I  mean  the  clean,  deep, 
social  happiness  that  begins  out  of  doors,  of 
which  John  Masefield  says, 

"The  days  that  make  us  happy  make  us  wise." 


74  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

Salvation  by  faith  and  salvation  by  deeds 
are  as  old  as  the  Bhagavad-Gita,  but  salva- 
tion by  mirth,  which  has  been  needed  as 
long,  may  be  new  to  owlish  philosophers. 
Perhaps  only  poets  understand  it.  Jim  and  I 
have  met  a  few  people  on  our  wanderings 
who  seemed  to  be  untouched  by  salvation  by 
faith  and  deeds,  who  might  have  accepted 
salvation  by  mirth.  One  of  them  was  the 
fisherman  we  met  on  the  bank  of  the  slough. 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  or  there- 
abouts, while  we  were  looking  for  a  place  to 
camp,  we  saw  a  small,  dilapidated  house-boat 
moored  beside  a  stretch  of  level  land  on  which 
were  trees.  At  first  we  did  not  see  the  owner, 
but,  when  we  landed,  we  found  him  behind 
his  abode. 

Like  a  wizard  of  old  he  stood  near  a  wide, 
high  fire,  a  weird  black  figure  seen  through 
the  crimson  of  the  climbing  flames.  Two  big 
tins  (like  Standard  Oil  tins)  stood  beside  the 
fire.  From  a  third,  in  the  middle  of  it,  steam 
came  as  from  the  caldron  of  a  Merlin.  The 
wizard  was  a  bearded  man  of  middle  age 
and  somewhat  the  worse  for  wear.  He  lacked 
the  sinister  impressiveness  usually  attributed 
to  wizards  by  those  who  know  them  best.  As 
we  drew  nearer  we  saw  that  he  was  cutting 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  75 

up  bits  of  orange-peel  and  tossing  them  into 
his  caldron.  He  threw  in,  also,  a  handful  of 
what  looked  Hke  pickling  spice — and  was. 

'*May  we  camp  here  near  your  place  over- 
night?" asked  Jim. 

'*Sure,"  he  said,  "anything  you  like.'' 

We  stood  watching  his  alchemy.  Curiosity 
overcame  me. 

''What  is  it  in  the  tin?" 

''Water  boilin'  fer  crayfish.  Fm  a  cray- 
fisherman." 

He  lifted  the  cover  from  one  of  the  tins 
at  his  side  and  showed  us  hundreds  of  "craw- 
dads"  creeping  about  in  it. 

"To-day's  catch,"  he  said,  "First  you  catch 
'em.  Then  you  clean  'em.  Then  you  boil 
'em  in  salted  water  with  peel  and  spices. 
Then  you  cool  'em.  Then  sell  'em  to  restau- 
rants in  Portland.  Fifty  cents  a  half  dozen. 
Swells  eat  'em.   Ever  try  'em?" 

We  admitted  that  we  had  not  had  that 
pleasure.  Then  he  sat  down  on  an  old  stool, 
picked  a  crayfish  out  of  the  tin  full  of  them, 
found  the  right  flipper  in  its  tail,  gave  it  a 
twist  and  a  jerk,  and  dropped  the  little  beast 
hmp  and  wilted  into  the  steaming  tin  where 
it  reddened  just  as  lobsters  do.  He  worked 
as  fast  as  a  woman  hulling  berries. 


76  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

"Clean  *em  and  kill  'em  same  time/'  he 
explained. 

We  retired  as  gracefully  as  possible  from 
the  neighborhood  of  his  fire  and  built  one  of 
our  own  within  sight  and  earshot.  I  put  on 
a  pail  of  water  to  boil  for  we  were  to  dine  on 
a  dozen  ears  of  green  corn.  While  they  cooked 
Jim  did  the  work  of  camp-making.  Once 
he  called  out  to  the  crayfisherman.  They 
exchanged  mild  pleasantries.  I  began  to 
realize  that  the  wizard  had  an  unsatisfied 
social  streak  in  him.  After  watching  us  for  a 
while  he  picked  out  a  dozen  good  crayfish 
from  his  tin  full  of  boiling  ones  and  brought 
them  over  to  us. 

"For  your  dinner/'  he  said.  "Let  'em  cool 
first." 

Then,  for  fear  of  being  intrusive,  perhaps, 
he  withdrew  rapidly. 

When  our  corn  was  cooked  Jim  took  four 
big,  golden  ears  of  it  over  to  him  with  our 
compliments  and  a  bit  of  butter.  He  accepted 
them  all  with  an  awkward  pleasure  that  made 
us  feel  sure  that  he  was  unaccustomed  to 
receiving  gifts.  He  sat  down  beside  his  fire 
to  eat  corn  and  crayfish.  We  sat  down  be- 
side ours  to  eat  crayfish  and  corn.  And  while 
we  were  still  eating  the  dusk  deepened  and 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  77 

we  gradually  lost  sight  of  the  wizard  in  a 
light  river  mist.  It  was  as  if  he  had  taken 
the  smoke  of  his  fire  and  the  steam  from  his 
caldron  and  woven  a  gray,  magic  wall  of  them 
around  our  camp  in  the  trees. 

We  were  up  early  the  next  morning  and 
the  crayfisherman  was  up  early  too.  He  was 
puttering  around  in  a  shabby  old  rowboat, 
when  Jim  built  our  fire  for  breakfast.  While 
I  was  cooking  he  joined  Jim  and  took  him 
over  to  show  him  the  house-boat.  Later  I 
learned  how  the  conversation  ran.  Jerking 
his  thumb  over  his  shoulder  in  my  direction, 
the  crayfisherman  said: 

"I  had  a  piece  of  calico  myself  once.'* 

**What  happened  to  her?"  asked  Jim. 

With  more  than  a  touch  of  melodrama  in 
his  manner  the  crayfisherman  threw  open  the 
door  of  his  floating  palace  and  pointed  to 
an  old  jacket,  evidently  a  woman's,  hanging 
on  the  back  of  it. 

*'Hern,"  he  said.  "She  run  away  with 
another  man." 

In  the  clear,  hard  light  of  the  morning 
our  wizard  was  only  a  lonely  man!  We  felt 
vaguely  sorry  for  him  when  we  climbed  into 
The  Dingbat  and  pulled  slowly  away  from  the 
dilapidated  house-boat  across  the  murky  ooze 


78  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

of  the  slough.  Were  we  destined  to  hear  more 
of  him  later  on? 

Steadily  we  rowed  down  the  slough  toward 
St.  Helens  where  it  empties  into  the  Co- 
lumbia. Saturday  came  and  we  were  eager 
to  get  to  the  post  office  before  it  closed  for 
the  week-end.  We  expected  important  mail. 
So  we  struggled  with  an  indifferent  current 
until  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 
Then  we  stopped  and  made  inquiries.  We 
learned  that  St.  Helens  was  not  far  from  that 
point  as  a  cross-country  walk,  a  matter  of 
only  two  or  three  miles,  but  that  it  was  much 
farther  by  boat  because  it  was  necessary  to 
go  around  a  point  of  land  jutting  out  into  the 
river.  Also,  walking  was  quicker  than  pulling 
The  Dingbat  over  the  dead  waters  of  the 
slough.  Therefore  we  took  counsel  together 
and  decided  that  I  had  better  walk  to  St. 
Helens  for  the  mail.  We  could  meet  at  the 
town  dock  whither  I  could  go  after  purchasing 
food  for  supper. 

I  put  on  my  slouch  hat,  my  high,  square- 
toed  boots,  my  belt  and  the  holster  that  held 
my  Smith  and  Wesson.  I  set  off  at  a  good 
pace  through  wooded  country,  seeking  St. 
Helens.  The  earth  was  springy  under  the 
trees  and  grateful  to  the  feet.    I  had  been 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  79 

sitting  still  so  many  hours  in  The  Dingbat 
that  just  to  be  moving  was  a  delight.  I  strode 
along  rapidly,  walking  as  you  can  walk  only 
when  you  have  been  living  in  the  open  for 
some  time  with  clear  skies  over  the  top  of 
your  mind.  Presently  I  entered  St.  Helens 
from  the  rear  and  saw  the  quaint  little  town 
sloping  down  hill  toward  the  river.  I  was  ruddy 
with  health,  exercise,  pleasure,  and  sunburn. 
I  did  not  stop  to  consider  how  I  looked.  Nor 
did  I  change  my  stride.  I  hurried  on  to  what 
seemed  to  be  an  important  street  of  the  town. 

The  first  person  I  saw  was  a  nice-looking 
woman  in  an  afternoon  frock,  white  and  speck- 
less.  She  was  carrying  a  letter  as  if  she  in- 
tended to  mail  it.   I  caught  up  with  her. 

"Pardon  me,  madam,  out  where  is  the  post 
office?'' 

She  was  about  to  answer  pleasantly,  I 
think,  but  before  she  could  frame  the  words 
she  took  one  look  at  me.  The  smile  stiffened 
on  her  face. 

'That  way,"  she  gasped,  and  ran  in  the 
opposite  direction  as  if  for  her  life.  No  doubt, 
after  looking  at  my  Smith  and  Wesson,  she 
wondered  who  this  strange  Boadicea  could 
be.  I  stood  still  long  enough  to  blush  for  my 
appearance  and  behavior,   but  it  was  thrilling 


8o  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

too.  I,  who  had  been  born  and  bred  to  the 
dullness  of  bridge  whist  and  the  mild  delights 
of  pink  teas,  was  taking  a  Western  village 
by  storm  and  putting  the  feminine  population 
to  flight  with  one  glance  of  my  fiery  eyes! 
I  knew  the  exultation  of  conquest  and,  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life,  sympathized  with  Alex- 
ander and  Caesar.  But  I  straightened  my 
hat,  moderated  my  stride,  subdued  my  ex- 
pression into  something  more  nearly  approach- 
ing the  lady-like,  and  went  to  the  post  office 
for  my  letters.  My  adventures  were  over  for 
that  day.  In  due  season  I  met  Jim  at  the 
town  dock,  we  wandered  off"  and  found  a 
camping  site,  making  plans  together  to  cross 
the  Columbia  and  pull  into  the  little  Lewis 
River  next  morning.  We  had  been  told  that 
we  might  find  salmon-trout  in  it.  But,  as  it 
happened,  we  went  back  and  forth  across 
the  Columbia  several  times  before  we  finally 
settled  in  a  camp  on  the  Lewis.  And  one  of 
our  crossings  nearly  made  an  end  of  the  cruise 
of  The  'Dingbat  sooner  than  we  anticipated. 

The  Columbia  is  broad  and  deep  near  St. 
Helens,  a  marvelous  and  mighty  river.  Over 
it  the  winds  blow  from  the  ocean  and  the  waves 
on  it  are  like  the  waves  on  the  Great  Lakes. 
Sometimes  waves  and  current  together  make 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  8 1 

the  crossing  difficult  for  little  boats  like  ours. 
But  The  Dingbat  had  behaved  so  well  hitherto 
that  we  did  not  realize  the  difficulties  of 
passing  those  ridges  and  hollows  of  heavy 
water.    We  set  out  confidently  enough. 

We  found  that  it  was  very  slow  going.  The 
oars  moved  clumsily  in  the  wooden  oarlocks 
and  we  learned,  almost  at  once,  that  The 
Dingbat^  with  no  curved  line  in  her  anatomy, 
was  not  suited  to  this  new  environment.  Jim 
got  her  into  the  middle  of  the  stream  and  then 
discovered  that  he  was  getting  tired  and 
making  poor  progress.  Just  at  that  moment 
a  boat  under  motor  power  came  up  with  us 
and,  seeing  that  we  were  having  a  hard  pull, 
offered  us  a  tow.  Gratefully  we  flung  our 
rope.  W^e  thought  we  had  solved  the  problem 
of  getting  across.  Their  engine  started  and 
we  felt  ourselves  moving  swiftly  after  them 
over  the  rough  river. 

For  a  few  minutes  all  went  well  and  then, 
owing  to  some  slight  change  of  direction,  the 
larger  boat  pulled  the  bow  of  The  Dingbat 
straight  through  a  wave.  It  covered  our  floor 
with  water  and  put  us  in  great  danger  of 
overturning  at  any  moment.  I  screamed, 
which  was  fortunate,  for  the  man  holding 
our   rope   looked,   saw   what    had    happened 


82  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

dropped  our  rope  at  once,  and  had  the  engine 
stopped  that  they  might  stand  by  and  see 
us  through.  Jim  never  lost  his  head  for  a 
moment,  but  scrambled  to  the  oars  and  pulled 
The  Dingbat  about  until  she  was  head  on 
with  the  waves.  He  yelled  to  me  to  bail  like 
mad,  but  I  did  not  need  to  be  told.  As  the 
water  sloshed  about  from  side  to  side,  one 
edge  or  the  other  would  tip.  Balancing 
against  the  water  with  the  weight  of  my  body 
as  well  as  I  could,  I  dipped  out  the  water 
as  fast  as  possible  with  a  pan  fortunately 
found  on  the  floor.  Every  panful  out  made 
us  that  much  safer,  but  we  were  deep  in  the 
water  and  any  unusually  heavy  wave  might 
have  overturned  us.  Slowly  and  steadily, 
however,  we  pulled  through  the  worst  of  the 
waves  and  finally,  dripping  with  the  perspira- 
tion of  nervous  excitement  and  with  the  water 
that  had  nearly  swallowed  us,  we  reached 
the  shallows  near  the  mouth  of  the  Lewis 
and  stepped  out,  exhausted,  on  the  shore. 
The  men  in  the  motor  boat  who  had  tried  to 
help  us  and  who  had  remained  to  see  that 
we  were  safe  cheered  for  us  and  waved  their 
hats  before  they  started  their  engine  and  went 
on  up  the  stream. 

It  may  have  been  the  next  day,  or  the  next. 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  83 

that  we  left  St.  Helens  and  went  up  the  Co- 
lumbia with  some  salmon  fishermen  to  a  gravel 
bank  where  Indians  used  to  fight  long  ago, 
and  where  arrow-heads  are  still  to  be  found. 
We  had  luncheon  together  and  then  we  all 
hunted  for  arrow-heads.  The  fishermen  would 
not  keep  the  ones  they  found,  for  they  said 
that  they  lived  near  enough  to  find  others 
at  any  time.  They  gave  all  they  could  find 
to  us,  even  though  they  believed  that  the 
bits  of  shaped  flint  were  worth  good  money. 
While  we  were  looking  for  arrow-heads  they 
told  us  a  tale  of  a  crayfisherman  and  his  bride. 
We  wondered  if  it  could  possibly  be  the  friendly 
crayfisherman  who  had  been  kind  to  us.  But  we 
could  not  tell  for  we  had  never  known  his  name. 

They  told  us  that  he  had  been  married, 
this  crayfisherman,  to  a  sweet  young  girl 
from  up  the  river,  and  that  he  had  always 
treated  her  well  when  he  was  sober.  He  would 
drink  with  other  men  for  the  sociability  of 
the  thing,  however,  and  then  go  home  roaring 
and  beat  his  little  wife  until  she  was  in  terror 
of  her  life.  Finally  she  fled  to  an  old  friend 
of  her  father,  who  took  her  up  the  river  to 
her  mother  in  his  boat.  Poor  child,  she  did 
not  want  another  man. 

Was    this    our    crayfisherman,    who    might 


84  T^he  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

have  accepted  salvation  by  mirth  if  Fate  had 
offered  it,  who  was  doomed  to  a  lonely  life 
in  an  old  house-boat  with  crayfish  for  com- 
rades and  a  woman's  jacket  hanging  on  the 
door?  Had  he  talked  with  us  freely  because 
the  need  of  his  soul  was  for  speech,  covering 
the  real  reason  for  his  loneliness  because  he 
was  sober  at  the  time  and  could  not  bear  to 
look  it  in  the  face?  Did  he  hold  to  his  own 
version  of  the  story  because  it  supported  his 
pride?  Did  he  let  the  old  jacket  satisfy  his 
need  of  sentiment  because  he  must  have  that 
much  tenderness  in  his  hfe?  We  had  no  way 
of  knowing.  There  were  many  crayfishermen. 
They  talked  as  they  felt. 

It  was  not  strange  that  he  talked  with  us 
freely.  The  hunger  of  the  spirit  for  sympathy, 
we  have  learned,  is  as  common  and  as  con- 
stant as  the  hunger  of  the  body  for  food. 
But  whereas  people  will  seek  the  body's  food 
in  their  own  home  gardens,  many  of  them 
have  given  up  hope  of  finding  the  spirit's 
food  in  their  own  home  towns.  Lacking  an 
efficient  and  sustaining  religion,  the  neediest 
are  to  be  found  on  any  wayside.  They  are 
wistful  mendicants.  Although  they  carry  no 
begging  bowls,  you  will  not  need  to  be  told 
who  they  are  if  you  wish  to  give  an  alms  for 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  8  5 

your  soul's  sake.  And  a  Croesus  of  spiritual 
riches,  I  believe,  could  travel  the  wide  world 
over  and  be  received  in  palace  and  hovel 
alike  \Yithout  money  or  price  for  the  giving 
of  this  one  good  gift  of  sympathy.  It  would 
have  to  be  real  sympathy,  however,  austere 
and  strong  and  full  of  faith.  It  could  not  be 
a  mawkish  sentimentality.  It  could  not  be 
a  mask  worn  for  a  purpose.  It  would  have 
to  be  akin  to  the  sympathy  of  Christ  who  first 
told  this  need  of  our  kind  and  taught  this 
way  of  giving. 

People  sometimes  talk  more  freely  with 
strangers  than  with  their  neighbors.  The 
cherished  confession  is  for  those  who  will  carry 
it  far  away.  Our  crayfisherman  was  excep- 
tional only  in  that,  being  a  man,  his  confession 
was  tragic.  Men  usually  regale  us  with  tales 
of  fights,  floods,  fires,  and  other  adventures. 
Women  tell  us  of  their  sorrows — why  the  wee 
baby  died  of  the  croup  and  how  it  feels  to 
have  your  man  out  of  a  job.  Children  tell 
everything.  And  we  who  listen  find  our  own 
hearts  quickened,  our  own  lives  deepened  and 
strengthened  by  the  sharing  of  simple,  uni- 
versally known  experiences. 

We  are  changed  by  beauty,  too.   Never  did 


8  6  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

I  know  what  beauty  could  mean  to  me  until 
I  stood  one  day  in  a  field  of  blowing  thistle- 
down. I  had  been  beating  about  in  the  brush 
by  the  riverside,  looking  for  berries,  when  I 
came  upon  a  clearing,  a  circular  patch  like 
a  fairy's  ring.  Upon  the  earth  stood  many 
thistle  plants,  thorny  Puritans,  stiff  ii  prickly 
rectitude.  Above  them  in  a  mild  sky  floated 
millions  of  the  lovely  souls  of  them,  light  and 
exquisitely  white  where  purple  blooms  had 
died,  millions  of  Ariels  climbing  up  shafts  of 
sunlight  into  Heaven,  and  then  gently  sliding 
down  again.  They  rested  on  my  eyelids,  they 
caught  in  my  hair,  they  glistened  silverly 
on  the  gray  wool  of  my  sweater.  I  did  not 
touch  one  of  them  myself,  and  yet  I  have  kept 
them  all.  If  I  could  have  prayed  then,  I 
should  have  besought  Apollo  to  make  me  like 
the  seed  of  the  thistle.  For,  although  I  had 
known  them  all  my  life,  it  was  as  if  I  had 
never  seen  thistles  before. 

The  reason  for  this  new  joy  in  old  beauty 
was  not  far  to  seek.  We  had  acquired  some 
small  measure  of  that  hardness  of  body  and 
clarity  of  mind  that  belong  to  the  life  we  were 
living.  We  had  cut  ourselves  loose  from  the 
multifarious  cares  of  our  ordinary  lives  and 
had  given  ourselves  up  to  learning  the  ways 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  87 

of  sun  and  wind  and  rain.  Our  senses  had 
been  quickened  and  made  keen.  Only  a  few 
things  seemed  important — food,  rest,  beauty, 
and  worship.  For  the  first  time  in  my  Hfe 
since  my  childhood,  I  was  able  to  receive 
the  gift  of  the  world's  loveliness  in  the  spirit 
in  which  it  is  given,  to  let  beauty  be  a  growth 
and  a  discipline. 

It  is  something  merely  to  perceive  beauty. 
It  is  enough  to  balk  vulgar  irrelevance.  Once 
upon  a  time  I  went  for  a  drive  with  a  woman 
who  could  not  see  it  as  it  actually  existed 
before  her  eyes  because  her  mind  was  full  of 
stereotyped  images  of  it  as  she  had  read  of  it 
in  books.  We  were  driving  around  the  top 
of  a  high  hill,  looking  across  a  valley  to  moun- 
tains that  were  a  perfectly  honest  rosy  pink 
in  the  distance. 

"Pink  mountains!"   I  exclaimed. 

'^Mountains  are  purple  and  hills  are  blue,'* 
she  said  solemnly,  as  if  she  were  rebuking 
me  for  a  minor  lapse  in  morals,  ''and  who 
ever  heard  of  pink  mountains,  you  funnv 
woman?** 

For  her  the  lights  and  shadows  had  fallen 
in  vain.  The  sunset  had  wasted  time  in  being 
original.  It  might  as  well  have  copied  yes- 
terday's.   Looking  up  at  the  aurora  borealis 


8  8  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

from  a  chilly  New  England  valley,  looking 
down  on  the  apocalypse  of  the  Grand  Canyon, 
she  would  have  thought  only  the  conventional 
thing,  and  she  would  have  said  it.  True  lovers 
keep  silence.  For  devout  worship  she  would 
have  substituted  a  counterfeit  politeness,  the 
cant,  the  affectation,  the  lush  nonsense  that 
men  all  too  often  bring  to  the  discussion  of 
sacred  things. 

Yet  it  might  have  been  otherwise  if  she 
could  have  lived  out  of  doors  for  a  month  or 
two,  sharing  William  Watson *s  "overflowing 
sun."  She  might  have  learned  to  pray  for  a 
soul  as  beautiful  as  a  far  hill  under  rosy  light. 
For  the  love  of  beauty,  normally,  begins  out 
of  doors.  The  race  has  been  born  into  that 
growing  and  blowing  beauty,  and  out  of  it; 
whereas  the  beauty  of  cities,  of  man's  intellect, 
of  spiritual  prowess,  changes  from  generation 
to  generation.  These  are  still  new  things  in 
our  ancient  world. 

Living  in  the  open,  moreover,  makes  us 
gloriously  jealous,  after  a  while,  of  the  lovely 
individualities  of  all  things,  makes  us  eager 
for  communion  with  them,  makes  us  long 
to  wear  upon  our  souls  the  images  of  such 
things  as  we  have  loved.  To  the  people  of 
the  town   all  rivers  are  alike.    The  camper 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  89 

knows  that  no  two  rivers  are  alike.  I  have 
seen  the  utter  blueness  of  the  St.  Lawrence 
under  a  sunny  sky.  I  have  seen  the  Brule 
rushing  headlong  through  Wisconsin,  yellow- 
brown  in  the  spring.  I  have  seen  the  placid 
"Isis'*  near  "Folly  Bridge"  in  Oxford,  and 
the  dark,  menacing  grandeur  of  the  Columbia. 
But  the  little  Lewis  River  which  we  entered 
when  we  had  crossed  the  Columbia,  has  as 
much  character  of  its  own  as  any  greater 
stream  that  I  know.  The  cloudy  sage-green 
of  its  waters  I  have  seen  nowhere  else. 


[V] 


[V] 

Ir^  FISHED  all  day  without  any  luck  when 
we  first  entered  the  Lewis.  We  pulled  up 
stream  as  far  as  the  fork  where  the  salmon- 
trout  were  said  to  be.  But  we  caught  none. 
At  sundown  we  dropped  down  to  the  mouth 
again,  rather  disgruntled.  We  saw  a  house- 
boat of  the  scow  type  securely  chained  to 
piles  in  the  bank  and  asked  the  fisherman 
who  lived  in  it  for  permission  to  camp  on 
shore,  but  near  his  residence,  for  the  night. 
He  seemed  surprised  by  the  request  for  he 
did  not  own  the  land,  but  he  said  that  it 
would  probably  be  all  right.  He  was  glad 
to  have  neighbors.  He  and  his  wife  and 
partner,  he  said,  would  be  at  hand  if  we  should 
need  anything. 

In  a  grove  at  a  short  distance  we  built 
our  fire  and  made  lucky  stew  with  plain 
potatoes.  In  about  half  an  hour  they  were 
ready  and  we  began  to  eat.  Then  we  saw  our 
fisherman  friend  coming  toward  us,  balancing 
something  in  each  uplifted  hand,  like  a  waiter 
in  a  cheap  restaurant.  When  he  arrived  it 
was  evident  that  he  held  a  pan  of  hot  bis- 


94  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

cuits  in  one  hand  and  a  hot  apple  pie  in  the 
other. 

"The  wife  thought  you'd  Hke  *em  for  sup- 
per/' he  said. 

Did  we  Hke  them?  For  weeks  we  had  Hved 
chiefly  on  lucky  stew  and  triscuit.  Those 
biscuits  and  that  pie  vanished  quickly.  After 
eating  them  we  went  over  to  the  house-boat 
to  thank  Mrs.  Fisherman.  She  and  her 
husband  and  his  fishing  partner  all  welcomed 
us  cordially  and  bade  us  sit  down  on  their 
pier  and  talk  a  bit.   We  did. 

The  two  men  owned  and  operated  a  motor 
fishing-boat  on  the  Columbia,  where  they 
caught  the  big  salmon  for  the  market.  They 
asked  what  luck  we  had  had  with  salmon- 
trout  up  the  Lewis.  We  admitted  that  we 
had  had  no  luck  at  all. 

"What  bait  did  you  use?"  they  asked. 

"Worms/'  we  replied  innocently. 

They  laughed  heartily. 

"You  won't  get  'em  that  way.  Gotta  use 
salmon  eggs." 

Then  we  learned  the  complexities  of  fish- 
ing for  salmon- trout.  They  feed  on  the  eggs 
of  the  big  salmon.  First  the  fisherman  takes 
a  mass  of  these  eggs  and  pickles  them  in 
granulated  sugar.    When  they  have  stood  in 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  95 

sugar  until  they  are  firm  and  will  not  spoil 
easily  he  puts  a  mass  of  them  in  a  small  sack 
with  some  stones.  He  throws  this  sack  over- 
board into  the  middle  of  the  river  just  above 
the  place  where  he  expects  to  fish.  Then  he 
baits  a  long  line  with  two  or  three  salmon 
eggs,  puts  on  a  heavy  sinker,  throws  it  in  on 
the  down-stream  side  of  the  sack,  rows  back 
to  shore  with  his  reel,  and  waits. 

That  is  what  we  did  and  it  was  not  long 
before  we  were  rewarded  for  our  pains.  We 
pulled  in  a  lovely,  leaping,  silver  fish  that 
flashed  in  and  out  of  the  water  as  we  reeled, 
flickering  like  money  in  the  sun.  He  was 
clear  pink,  like  salmon,  under  his  silver  sur- 
face, and  sweeter  than  any  other  trout  I  ever 
ate.  After  that  the  day  that  brought  us  one 
or  two — a  good  meal — was  a  red-letter  day 
for  us. 

Mr.  Fisherman  and  his  wife  and  partner 
proved  to  be  friendly,  enjoyable  human 
beings  and  got  up  a  jolly  fishing  party  for  us. 
They  came  to  breakfast  with  us  first,  under 
our  tree,  where  we  made  pancakes  for  them 
and  camp  coffee.  It  was  a  feast.  Then  we 
all  piled  into  their  fishing-boat  and  in  it 
crossed  the  Columbia  and  went  back  again 
into  the  Willamette  Slough.   Our  friends  took 


96  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

us  to  a  muddy  backwater  where  catfish  were 
plentiful,  the  kind  called  bullheads  in  the 
East.  In  about  an  hour  the  five  of  us  had 
caught  sixty-five  good  fish  and  we  thought 
that  would  be  enough  for  one  day.  We  ate 
the  luncheon  we  had  carried  with  us,  rested 
and  talked  religion  while  the  men  smoked 
pipes,  and,  in  the  afternoon,  went  home  in 
triumph  with  our  catch.  Twenty-eight  fish 
were  given  us  as  our  share  and  our  friends 
taught  Jim  how  to  skin  them.  The  bullhead, 
to  be  good,  must  be  skinned. 

We  pulled  The  Dingbat  up  the  stream  to 
a  camping  place  near  a  farm  where  we  hoped 
to  get  milk,  water,  and  vegetables  to  eat  with 
our  fish.  I  went  up  to  the  house  and  secured 
these  necessaries  from  the  young  farmer's 
wife.  When  I  returned  with  my  purchases 
the  young  man  who  owned  the  farm  was  stand- 
ing on  the  bank  above  Jim,  looking  down  at 
our  catch  hungrily. 

"Do  you  like  bullheads?''  I  asked. 

"You  bet  r 

"Have  some  for  your  dinner,"  said  Jim, 
quickly. 

The  young  farmer  demurred  politely.  He 
hadn't  meant  anything  like  that,  he  said. 
But  we  urged  him  to  take  some  fish,  for  so 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  97 

many  people  had  given  us  food  that  we  were 
eager  to  do  a  little  giving  ourselves.  Finally 
he  agreed  to  take  a  few  bullheads  up  to  the 
house  for  his  wife.  A  little  later  she  appeared 
on  the  bank,  bringing  us  a  few  ears  of  green 
corn,  a  handful  of  tender  cucumbers,  lettuce 
and  vinegar  to  go  with  it,  and  a  small  pitcher 
of  sweet  cream.  She  suggested,  also,  that  I  go 
with  her  to  the  berry  patch  in  the  pasture 
and  get  fruit  for  dessert.  I  did,  and  we  had 
the  first  real  two-course  dinner  of  our  trip. 
After  dinner  we  went  up  to  their  cottage 
and  spent  the  evening  in  their  tiny  living- 
room,  admiring  a  fine  Oregon  baby  and  talk- 
ing of  nothing  in  particular,  which  is  one  of 
the  best  things  to  talk  about  when  one's 
feelings  are  social. 

Making  friends  with  a  small  family — 
father,  mother,  and  baby,  is  a  simple  matter. 
Making  friends  with  a  large  family  and  the 
pets  of  a  large  family  is  a  more  ambitious 
undertaking.  We  discovered  that  a  few  days 
later  when  we  went  up  the  Lewis  to  the  fork 
again  for  salmon-trout.  We  spent  the  day 
fishing  and  swimming  and  then,  when  we 
were  floating  down  again  to  our  camping 
place,  we  came  suddenly  upon  ten  children, 


98  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

three  dogs,  two  cows,  and  several  pigs  all  in 
the  water  together  near  the  shallow  edge  of 
the  stream.  (Just  below  that  point  people 
drank  the  river  water  and  thought  it  was 
quite  pure!)  The  boys  were  wearing  old  over- 
alls cut  to  knee  length  and  loose,  but  hitched 
to  them  with  most  discreet  *  gallusses/*  The 
girls  had  on  old  dresses.  The  youngest  chil- 
dren wore  shreds  of  underwear.  It  was 
sweltering  hot  and  they  were  all  blissfully 
happy  to  be  sloshing  about  in  the  cool  water. 
The  cows  stood  knee-deep.  The  dogs  swam 
after  sticks.  The  pigs  wallowed  with  the 
babies.  A  boy  about  twelve  years  of  age, 
called  Harry,  seemed  to  be  in  charge  of  them 
all. 

Jim  and  I  had  on  bathing  suits,  for  we  had 
been  swimming  earlier  in  the  day.  Moved 
by  a  queer  impulse,  Jim  cried, 
"My  wife  will  race  you,  Harry!*' 
Ten  pairs  of  human  eyes,  the  eyes  of  three 
dogs,  two  cows,  and  several  pigs  all  seemed 
to  be  looking  at  me,  as  if  to  ask  who  I  was 
that  would  dare  to  compete  with  the  re- 
doubtable Harry.  I  wondered  myself,  for  I 
am  a  poor  swimmer.  But  since  Jim  had  made 
the  rash  challenge  there  was  nothing  for  it 
but  to  tumble  overboard  and  do  my  best  for 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  99 

the  honor  of  our  house.  Needless  to  say, 
Harry  won  the  race.  The  children  seemed  to 
like  us  the  better  for  having  established  him 
the  more  firmly  in  their  esteem. 

We  had  stopped  to  swim.  We  remained  to 
chat.  We  learned  that  there  is  still  hope  for 
the  old  English  stock  in  Washington.  The 
ten  children  were  all  sisters  and  brothers,  all 
sturdy  and  happy.  We  wanted  a  picture  of 
them,  but  had  no  films  left  for  use  in  our 
little  camera.  However,  they  were  all  so 
pleased  with  the  idea  of  having  their  photo- 
graphs taken  that  we  promised  to  go  back 
next  day  as  photographers.   We  did. 

We  took  pa  with  his  hair  slicked  and  his 
jaw  locked  and  ma  in  her  best  dress.  We  took 
the  eldest  daughter  of  the  house,  married 
already  at  eighteen,  with  her  small  son,  about 
the  age  of  her  mother's  youngest.  We  took 
Harry  and  Johnny  and  Tommy  with  their 
dogs.  We  took  the  youngest  boy  feeding  the 
latest  offspring  of  the  pigs  with  a  nursing 
bottle.  We  took  the  little  girls,  types  of  con- 
ventional pulchritude,  with  roses  in  their 
hands.  Later  we  sent  the  finished  pictures 
to  the  family,  but  probably  we  did  not  make 
them  look  beautiful  enough  for  their  own 
satisfaction,  for  never  a  word  did  we  hear. 


lOO  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

At  the  time,  however,  they  all  seemed  to  be 
well  pleased.  We  had  a  pow-wow  over  how 
fine  everybody  had  looked,  over  the  incipient 
personalities  of  the  baby  pigs  and  the  fas- 
cinating idiosyncrasies  of  the  dogs  and  cows. 
Then  we  went  up  to  the  house  for  a  visit. 
Pa  gave  us  corn  and  cucumbers.  Ma  gave  us 
butter  and  fresh  white  bread. 

And  so  the  time  passed,  day  after  deeply 
satisfying  day,  until  we  knew  in  our  hearts 
that  it  was  time  to  go  back  again  to  the  cares 
of  this  world  and  the  life  that  we  had  almost 
forgotten  in  the  contemplation  of  white  waters, 
woodsmoke,  and  the  Spirit  that  broods  in 
wild  skies  and  deep  silences.  We  were  strong 
in  body  and  firm  in  mind  again  when  we  sold 
the  dear  old  Dingbat  of  Arcady  for  twelve 
jars  of  canned  salmon,  and  gave  her  over  into 
the  hands  of  our  friend  the  salmon  fisher- 
man. 

When  Jim  and  I  went  out  on  that  first 
trip  we  had  wanted  to  forget  people.  Because 
we  were  poor  we  were  failures  in  our  small 
world.  We  had  known  conflicts  and  sorrows. 
It  was  as  if  we  had  wrestled  in  vain  with 
the  Hercules  of  the  worldly  mind.  We  were 
children    of   Antaeus,    worsted    in    our    first 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  i  o  i 

encounter,  going  back  to  Mother  Earth  for 
strength. 

And  in  the  woods  we  found  strength.  Trees 
did  not  condescend  when  they  looked  down 
upon  us.  Sometimes  they  let  us  feel  that  we 
were  as  tall  as  they.  The  maple  did  not 
trouble  us  by  despising  the  fir  for  having 
another  way  of  life,  nor  did  the  fir  demand 
a  dreary  conformity  of  the  maple.  Trees,  we 
learned,  are  too  proud  for  vanity  and  give 
no  time  to  wondering  what  others  may  think 
of  their  leaves.  Nor  does  the  tallest  tree  claim 
to  be  richer  than  a  clump  of  clover.  What  is 
true  of  trees  is  as  true,  in  appropriate  ways, 
of  sun  and  moon  and  stars,  of  earth  and  air 
and   water,   of  all   animals   save  only   man. 

Yet,  after  all  that  is  said,  the  people  by 
the  riverside  with  their  tragedies  and  ro- 
mances, their  avid  need  of  sympathy,  their 
blessed  overflowing  kindliness,  gave  us  as 
much  as  Mother  Earth  ever  gave.  They  gave 
us  back  our  faith,  our  joy  in  our  kind.  To  all 
with  whom  we  broke  bread  and  sang  songs 
and  told  wild  tales,  to  all  who  befriended  us 
for  a  day  or  any  hour,  our  salutations  and 
our  thanks!  Amen. 

The  cruise  of  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  was, 


I02  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

as  I  have  already  hinted,  only  the  first  of 
many  adventurous  excursions,  the  beginning 
of  a  new  life  not  yet  ended.  To  live  near 
singing  rivers  is  to  remember  them.  To  know 
the  savor  and  tang  of  woodsmoke  is  to  desire 
it  always. 

A  townsman  gets  little  joy  from  the  scent 
of  woodsmoke,  for  he  does  not  know  how 
many  varieties  of  smoke  there  are.  But  woods- 
men know  that  there  are  many  fragrances 
in  the  burning  of  wood.  Dead  wood  is  not 
Hke  green,  and  pine  is  not  hke  maple  to  our 
noses.  Smoke  in  frosty  air  smells  sweeter 
than  smoke  in  summer.  But  whether  it  be 
the  spicy  perfume  of  chaparral,  crackling  sage 
and  mesquite  twigs  from  a  Southern  mesa, 
the  rich  odor  of  kindled  pine,  or  the  milder 
fragrance  of  oak  logs,  it  is  a  symbol  of  all 
honorable  things  to  the  camper.  Watching  it 
rise  in  strands  or  puffs  of  blue  and  gray  is 
like  watching  the  whole  history  of  the  race. 
In  the  fading  tissue  of  color  I  have  seen  altars 
and  forges  and  hearths  and  pyres  for  the  dead. 
I  have  seen  Prometheus,  dearest  of  Titans, 
and  his  children  of  this  later  age,  still  busy 
stealing  for  us  holier  flames  than  any  that  can 
be  wedded  with  wood. 

Yet  sometimes,  even  as  a  camper,  I  have 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  103 

hated  smoke  because  I  have  loved  trees.  Into 
what  may  small  boys  climb  when  there  are 
no  trees?  Into  what  may  small  souls  climb? 
Progress  is  with  trees.  Who  will  say  what 
China  might  have  been  if  she  had  not  cut 
down  the  trees  beside  the  Yangtse  as  we  Amer- 
icans are  now  cutting  down  too  many  of  the 
trees  of  America?  Beauty  is  with  trees.  It 
was  not  an  ugly  superstition  that  permitted 
the  poets  of  Greece  to  make  lovely  maidens 
into  branching  arbors.  The  camper  who 
builds  his  fire  where  it  can  harm  a  single  tree 
is  a  glutton  of  life  and  a  murderer  of  loveli- 
ness. May  the  long,  strong  roots  of  my  friends 
trouble  his  carcase  when  it  is  buried,  and  may 
he  wait  long  for  a  beacon  on  the  banks  of 
the  Styx!  I  think  that  man  has  little  culture 
who  has  no  intimate  among  the  trees. 

My  own  best  friend  is  the  eucalyptus  that 
came  from  Australia  to  California  where  I 
knew  it.  I  have  loved  liveoaks  with  their 
mystic  garlands  of  moss  and  their  stubborn, 
stocky  bodies,  a  veiled  soldiery;  I  have  loved 
the  maples  when  I  have  tasted  their  honey 
and  when  I  have  slept  at  their  feet.  I  have 
loved  pines  for  their  columnar  power,  birches 
for  their  refinement,  and  apple-trees  because 
thev  have  received  me  into   their  arms.    I 


I04  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

have  listened  mute  with  wonder  to  the  grim 
and  ghastly  rustling  of  palms  in  a  sea  breeze 
at  night,  and  I  have  watched  their  dark, 
pointed  fans  outspread  against  a  sapphire 
sky.  These,  for  my  imagination,  are  all 
beautiful.  The  eucalyptus  is  supremely  beau- 
tiful. How  good  to  strip  oflF  old  moods  like 
old  bark;  to  stand  before  the  world  a  spirit 
in  white,  uncovered  truth  like  that;  to  lift 
one's  self  far  away  from  the  crowd  and  near 
to  the  sky,  waving  the  newest  buds  of  self 
to  and  fro  worshipfuUy  in  wide,  open  spaces; 
to  keep  the  green  leaves  of  life  alive  through 
all  the  days  of  the  year;  to  have  dignity  that 
is  not  forbidding  and  austerity  that  is  not 
ungracious;  to  be  remembered  fragrantly!  If 
I  were  a  eucalyptus  tree,  I  should  ask  for  no 
companions.  I  should  ask  Fate  to  let  me 
stand  alone  and  lift  my  hands  toward  Heaven 
with  untrammeled  gestures.  Let  me  have 
much  space  to  move  in  when  I  am  near  enough 
to  know  the  many  thoughts  of  the  sky! 

It  was  in  California,  with  many  a  tall 
"blue-gum"  and  "red-gum"  near  at  hand, 
that  we  built  the  successor  to  The  Dingbat 
of  Arcady.  There  was  a  strong  family  resem- 
blance between  the  two  boats.    In  fact  they 


The  'Dingbat  of  Arcady  105 

were  as  much  alike  as  twin  sisters.  But  the 
new  craft  was  a  little  larger.  Therefore  we 
called  her  The  Royal  Dingbat,  In  her  we 
spent  long  peaceful  hours  on  the  sun-dazzled 
waters  of  San  Diego  Harbor,  traveling  from 
the  Silver  Strand  and  Glorietta  Bay  out  to 
the  entrance  where  the  Pacific  pours  in  be- 
tween Point  Loma  and  North  Island. 

One  afternoon  we  took  our  blankets  and 
canvas  and  cooking  utensils  and  left  Coronado, 
hoping  to  make  the  extreme  end  of  North 
Island,  where  the  open  ocean  washes  one  side 
of  a  sharp  angle  and  the  harbor  waters  the 
other  side,  before  night-fall.  We  expected  to 
camp  there  and  fish  early  in  the  morning 
when  we  knew  that  the  tide  would  be  turning 
toward  land,  bringing  the  fish  in  with  it.  But 
The  Royal  Dingbat^  like  her  sister  ship,  was 
not  made  to  move  quickly  over  roughened 
water.  We  stopped,  also,  at  intervals,  to  fish 
for  mackerel,  of  which  there  were  many  in  the 
bay.  Therefore  it  was  late  and  dark  when  we 
reached  our  destination.  The  moon  was  not  up. 

Jim  cleaned  the  mackerel  that  we  had 
caught  and  I  cooked  them  over  a  fire  of  drift- 
wood flaming  green  and  golden  at  the  water's 
edge.  Then  we  decided  to  get  to  rest  at  once 
that  we  might  be  up  early.   We  took  the  long 


lo6  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

rope  fastened  to  the  stern  of  The  Royal  Ding- 
bat and  carried  it  up  the  beach  to  the  Hne 
where  vegetation  begins.  There  we  tied  it 
to  a  stake  firmly  pounded  into  the  sand  so 
that  our  boat  would  not  float  away  with  the 
rising  tide.  Then  we  carried  our  blankets 
up  above  the  tide  line,  also,  and  spread  them 
out  where  the  beach  was  lightly  covered 
with  growing  things. 

Sand  is  said  to  be  the  least  comfortable 
of  all  beds,  but  it  was  too  delightful  there 
under  the  open  sky  to  remember  that.  In 
California  the  days  are  topazes,  the  nights 
sapphires.  Lofty  and  serene  the  sky  bent 
above  us,  showing  sharp  frost-points  of  the 
stars,  like  the  diamond-tipped  spears  of  gods 
fallen  on  a  sapphire  floor.  The  Milky  Way 
was  the  record  of  some  gorgeous  rout  and 
pursuit  through  Heaven.  When  a  fog  comes 
in,  this  light  of  sapphires  and  diamonds  is 
magically  beclouded.  The  blue  becomes 
opaque,  as  if  milk  had  been  poured  into  an 
azure  goblet.  But  on  this  night  I  remember 
that  there  was  no  fog.  I  remember  the  blue 
and  white  miracle  above  me  and  the  chanting 
of  the  ocean  with  its  voice  of  Titanic  mother- 
hood and  fatherhood.  As  I  looked  and  lis- 
tened, I  lost  consciousness. 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  107 

The  next  morning  we  were  awakened  as 
Homer  must  have  been  awakened  very  often, 
even  in  his  blindness,  by  the  rays  of  the  un- 
troubled sun  shining  on  us  and  on  the  *Vine- 
dark"  sea,  touching  our  cheeks  dehcately  with 
a  warmth  unknown  to  night,  caressing  sensi- 
tive eyelids,  waking  the  sleeping  flowers  and 
waking  us. 

Then  I  saw  that  my  bed  had  been  made  in 
Paradise.  Around  the  edge  of  the  old,  brown 
camping  blankets  the  wild  beach  primroses 
blossomed  in  golden  health.  And  growing 
among  them  were  pale  purple  beach  verbenas, 
each  fragile  flower  head  borne  upon  a  sticky 
stem  and  exhaling  an  intense  and  seductive 
perfume.  Beside  these  blossoms  the  friendly 
garden  verbena  might  seem  blowsy  and  crude. 
Pale  purple  and  clear  yellow  side  by  side  in 
the  dawn,  blessing  the  bed  that  I  lay  on  as 
Matthew,  Mark,  Luke  and  John  would  have 
blessed  it,  surrounding  me,  head  and  hand 
and  foot,  drooping  over  my  face  as  I  looked 
up  to  greet  the  sun!  When  the  bed  was  made 
the  night  before  I  had  not  known. 

Jim  got  up  at  once  and  baited  his  line. 
Then,  brown  and  bare-footed  and  glad  in  the 
early  morning,  he  climbed  over  a  ridge  of 
slipperv  black  rocks  that  jutted  out  into  the 


io8  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

rising  water.  He  was  fishing  for  the  bass  that 
wear  sleek  gray  and  for  sculpin  with  heads 
as  admirably  grotesque  as  the  gargoyles  of 
Notre  Dame.  He  sat  on  the  cold,  wet  rocks 
with  his  bare  feet  curled  up  under  him,  watch- 
ing the  tide  come  in,  dreaming  of  the  fish  it 
ought  to  bring.  I  sat  on  the  beach  and  watched 
him,  liking  the  wistful  boyishness  that  could 
forget  the  world  for  fish,  the  fugitive  child 
that  is  in  him  and  in  all  good  men.  I  hoped 
Father  Neptune  would  send  hosts  of  the  finny 
people  to  nibble  at  his  bait. 

The  prospects  seemed  to  be  good.  Jim  soon 
caught  a  good  bass,  held  him  up  for  me  to 
see,  strung  him,  and  hung  him  in  the  water 
in  a  crack  between  the  rocks  to  keep  him  cool 
and  fresh.  A  little  later  he  caught  a  sculpin 
and  pulled  up  his  string  to  put  the  newcomer 
on  it.  The  bass  had  disappeared.  Jim  merely 
supposed  that  he  had  not  tied  it  securely, 
so  he  put  the  sculpin  in  its  place,  more  care- 
fully tied,  and  went  on  fishing.  Presently  he 
caught  another  bass.  He  lifted  the  string 
to  put  him  with  the  sculpin.  The  sculpin  was 
gone!  How  to  explain  it  he  did  not  know. 
He  attached  the  second  bass  firmly  to  the 
string  and  was  about  to  drop  it  into  the  water 
at  his  feet  when,  out  of  that  water  rose  a 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  109 

great  yellow  head,  yawning  hungrily  and  show- 
ing rows  of  teeth,  and  a  slimy,  writhing, 
yellow  body.  It  was  a  great  sea  eel,  father  of 
all  the  mythical  sea  serpents,  reaching  for 
the  bass  that  Jim  still  held.  It  waved  its 
lemon-colored  head  about  threateningly  with- 
in a  few  inches  of  Jim's  bare  feet.  Jim  tum- 
bled back  from  the  edge  of  the  rock  very  fast 
indeed.  We  were  content  with  the  one  bass 
for  breakfast.  But  I  was  disappointed  in 
Father  Neptune. 

It  was  on  this  same  beach,  on  another  day, 
that  we  first  made  friends  with  the  gulls 
that  keep  the  beaches  clean.  They  are  so 
common  that  it  is  easy  to  forget  the  thrilling 
passion  of  their  flight,  the  rapturous  poise, 
the  circling  power,  the  whirl  and  sudden  dip, 
beak  first  into  blue  water.  It  is  easy  to  forget 
the  wild  and  watchful  eyes  they  have,  the 
sleekness  of  their  pointed  heads,  the  strange 
pathos  of  their  call. 

It  was  while  we  were  eating  our  luncheon 
on  the  beach  in  the  hot  sunshine  that  one  or 
two  gulls  halted  in  the  sky  overhead,  tirelessly 
vigilant.  One  of  them,  seeing  our  food, 
swooped  low,  and  flew  over  us,  crying.  Jim 
threw  a  small  bit  of  bread  on  the  beach  about 


I  lo  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

twenty  feet  away.  The  gull  saw  it,  swooped, 
caught  it  and  ascended  again.  Jim  threw 
another  piece  a  little  nearer.  Again  the  sharp 
eyes  saw,  the  white  body  plunged  toward  the 
earth.  Another  piece  we  threw,  still  nearer. 
This  time  two  gulls  saw  it  and  flew  low  to 
get  our  gift.  We  threw  several  crumbs. 
Several  gulls  appeared  from  nowhere  in  par- 
ticular to  accept  our  offering.  More  and  more 
crumbs  we  threw,  sitting  quietly  there  in  the 
sun.  More  and  more  gulls  came  flying  across 
the  blue  fields  of  Heaven  to  see  what  was  hap- 
pening. In  fine  loops  and  circles  they  moved 
around  us,  swift  and  sudden  and  strong,  five 
or  six,  a  dozen,  two  dozen,  then  forty  by 
actual  count,  then  perhaps  more.  Their 
lusty  wings  beat  the  air  about  our  ears. 
White  and  gray  and  cream-color,  markings  of 
straw  and  tan  and  slate-color,  the  sharper 
shades  of  feet  and  beaks,  the  preening  and 
fluttering  delighted  us.  Even  as  we  had  been 
hungry  they  were  hungry.  Even  as  we  who 
were  poor  had  to  dare  much  to  get  our  bread, 
they  had  to  be  daring  too.  The  flap  and  clatter 
of  their  passing  was  the  epic  noise  of  their 
struggle  for  existence.  The  whirring  rise  of 
them  was  their  victory.  Their  outcry  was 
their  poetic  and  social  sharing  of  the  feast. 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  1 1 1 

All  this  we  could  feel  with  them.  All  this  we 
could  understand.  Evolutionists  tell  us  that 
there  may  have  been  a  time  when  bird  life 
was  near  to  our  own.  However  that  may  be, 
life  is  one  life  still  through  all  creation,  differ- 
ing only  in  the  degree  of  the  fullness  of  its 
manifestation. 

The  gulls  dared  to  come  very  near  us,  yet 
with  all  their  gallantry  they  would  not  suffer 
us  to  touch  them,  they  would  not  even  suffer 
themselves  to  touch  us,  although  they  flew 
so  near  that  once  a  long  wing-feather  brushed 
my  throat.  I  knew  a  child's  longing  to  fold 
my  two  hands  around  one  of  those  small, 
swift  white  bodies,  to  hold  it  and  look  straight 
into  those  wild,  cold,  courageous  eyes.  And 
on  a  later  day  this  experience  came  to  me, 
but  then  I  was  sorry  and  not  glad  of  it  after  all. 

We  had  been  trolling  in  the  bay  with  a 
shiny  tin  minnow  for  bait.  It  flashed  cannily 
in  the  translucent  water.  But  the  tide  was 
going  out  and  the  fishing  was  poor.  I  caught 
nothing.  So,  while  Jim  pulled  The  Royal 
'Dingbat  slowly  out  of  the  harbor  toward  the 
open  sea,  I  tied  the  trolling  line  and  leaned 
back  in  my  seat  negligently,  occupying  my- 
self with  my  own  profuse  meditations.  Jim 
saw  a  big  gull  swoop  and  cried,  "Look  out!'' 


112  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

But  it  was  too  late.  The  bird  had  dipped  for 
the  tin  minnow  and  our  hook  held  him  fast. 

It  was  a  moment  of  agony.  This  fair  white 
creature  of  the  sky  had  to  be  pulled  across 
the  water  that  we  might  loose  him,  his  pride 
of  flight  hurt  and  humbled  as  his  body  was 
wounded.  We  got  the  Hne  in  as  fast  as  pos- 
sible and,  when  he  fluttered  and  struggled 
and  beat  his  wings  against  the  edge  of  the 
boat,  I  caught  him  and  held  him  firmly,  but 
as  gently  as  I  could,  with  my  two  hands  about 
his  throbbing  body. 

We  found  that,  fortunately,  he  had  not 
swallowed  the  hook.  It  had  caught  firmly  in 
the  side  of  his  neck  when  the  tin  minnow 
sank  and  bobbed  under  his  unerring  stroke. 
For  a  moment  we  did  not  know  what  to  do. 
Jim  got  his  knife  and  tried  to  get  the  hook 
loose,  but  it  could  not  be  done  without  tear- 
ing the  gulFs  flesh  badly.  It  was  a  small 
hook.  We  severed  it  from  the  minnow  and 
from  our  line,  thinking  that  so  small  a  wound 
might  heal,  even  without  the  removal  of  the 
hook,  and  leave  the  bird  little  the  worse  oflF. 
I  unclosed  my  hands  and  he  went  free  again 
with  a  great  gladness. 

Our    adventures    were    numerous    in    San 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  1 1 3 

Diego  Bay.  One  of  them  was  the  oddest  ad- 
venture I  ever  had  with  a  fish.  It  will  be 
believed  only  by  those  who  have  faith  in  my 
veracity.  We  were  out  one  day  in  The  Royal 
'Dingbat  looking  for  mackerel  and  small  fry, 
fishing  lazily.  We  caught  little  or  nothing 
and  grew  tired  of  pulling  the  boat  around. 
We  decided  to  tie  her  to  one  of  the  big  piles 
that  marked  the  channel.  Jim  threw  our  rope 
around  it  loosely  and  then  we  lolled  in  the 
bow  and  stern,  doing  nothing,  saying  little, 
and  absorbing  the  beauty  of  the  sunset, 
crimson  with  delight  in  the  distance  beyond 
the  channel's  end. 

The  mackerel  line  with  which  we  had  been 
trolling  was  baited  with  a  fairly  large  hook 
and  carried  a  heavy  sinker.  The  sinker  had 
behaved  very  well  while  we  were  moving, 
but  when  we  stopped  it  carried  bait  and  line 
straight  to  the  bottom.  However,  our  minds 
were  not  occupied  with  the  thought  of  fish. 
We  were  too  lazy  to  care.  One  end  of  the 
line  was  slack  in  my  hand.  It  mattered  little 
to  me  that  the  other  end  had  gone  to  the  realm 
of  Davy  Jones.  Then  suddenly  I  felt  it  rip 
through  my  hand,  tearing  the  skin  of  my  palm 
as  my  grip  tightened  and  making  a  hot  line 
across,  like  an  electric  current. 


1 14  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

"A  big  fish!  I  can't  hold  him!"  I  yelled. 
Jim  took  the  reel.  The  line  sang  over  it  madly 
down  to  the  last  dry  inch.  Then  Jim  had  to 
hold  on.  The  fish  held  on  too.  The  rope  of 
The  Royal  'Dingbat^  loosely  coiled  around  the 
channel  pile,  slipped,  pulled  free,  slapped  the 
water.  We  began  to  move  away  from  the 
pile,  towed  toward  the  open  sea  and  the  sun- 
set by  some  unseen  power  at  the  end  of  our 
slender  mackerel  hne.  It  was  incredible  and 
ridiculous,  but  it  was  thrilling  and  there  was 
no  doubt  about  it.  For  a  few  moments  our 
sense  of  wonder  sharpened  and  deepened.  We 
learned  how  strong  a  slender  thing  can  be. 
A  mere  thread  was  drawing  us  toward  that 
Paradisal  glory  in  the  West.  Then,  suddenly, 
the  water  broke  ahead  of  us,  a  shark  with  a 
sallow  belly  and  an  ugly  head  leaped  clear 
of  the  water  for  an  instant,  broke  the  little 
mackerel  line,  and  disappeared! 

The  electricity  of  such  surprises  darts 
through  life  in  the  open,  making  day  and 
night  golden,  showing  us  the  vivid  interplay 
of  hardship  and  adventure  in  the  life  of  the 
spirit.  Hardship  in  the  world  of  wood  and 
stream  is  the  first  restraint  man  ever  knew, 
the  most  ancient  form  of  discipline,  the  be- 
ginning of  that  knowledge  of  the  law  which 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  115 

will  be  made  into  good  morals  at  last.  Ad- 
venture, in  the  world  of  wood  and  stream  is 
the  beginning  of  that  joy  in  the  power  of 
body  and  mind  which  brings  culture;  it  is 
the  nobly  defiant  impulse  to  live  freely  and 
take  chances  under  the  law;  it  is  the  desire 
for  overwhelming  beauty.  If  hfe  had  meant 
only  hardship  for  the  race,  it  would  have 
been  unbearable,  and  long  ago  the  genera- 
tions would  have  perished  of  heartache.  If 
life  had  meant  only  adventure,  the  beginnings 
of  order  never  would  have  come  out  of  chaos. 
The  fortunate  ones  of  the  earth  maintain  an 
equihbrium  between  hardship  and  adventure  in 
the  making  of  days  and  years,  knowing  that  to 
lose  this  balance  is  to  fall  away  into  death 
and  that  to  keep  it  brings  the  fullness  of  life. 


[VI] 


[VI] 

AyoMETiMES  the  day's  adventure  may  be 
minute  and  fragile,  a  chance  meeting  with  a 
flower.  Flowers,  like  the  abstract  idea  of 
beauty,  are  much  abused  in  custom  and  con- 
versation. Our  affection  for  them  is  lasting 
and  sincere,  but  rather  vulgar.  No  doubt  I 
seem  crude  when  I  handle  bloodroot  or  trillium 
or  creamcups,  if  there  be  gods  or  fairies  watch- 
ing or  finer  mortals  with  gentler  hands.  Our 
way  of  touching  flowers  is  a  revelation  or  a 
betrayal. 

Nor  can  we  know  them  by  possessing  them, 
by  having  them  in  our  houses.  We  might 
as  well  try  to  understand  normal  humanity 
by  seeing  it  in  prisons  and  hospitals.  If  we 
would  know  flowers,  especially  wildflowers,  we 
must  live  near  them.  The  flowers  that  do 
most  for  us  are  those  that  we  never  pick. 
We  never  see  them  fade. 

To  walk  in  golden  mustard  eight  feet  tall 
by  a  California  roadside  while  the  petals  and 
pollen  shower  bright  gold  on  our  heads  and 
shoulders  is  good.  To  kneel  on  the  mesa 
beside  the  tiny  pink  gilia  that  covers  the  earth 


1 20  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

with  bright  patches  after  the  rains,  lifting 
its  plucky  blossoms,  the  size  of  a  nickel,  on 
little  thread-like  stems  about  two  inches  long 
— that  also  is  good.  Better  still  it  is  to  wander 
into  some  remote  canyon  and  find  the  deep 
oracular  phacelia  that  has  pinkish,  hirsute 
stems  and  leaves  and  a  solemn  face  the  size 
of  a  violet.  People  who  have  broken  their 
bread  in  the  sight  of  such  flowers  and  taken 
their  rest  beside  them  are  less  likely  to  pick 
them.  They  have  exchanged  the  lust  of  posses- 
sion for  the  desire  of  beauty. 

So  have  I  passed  a  mariposa  lily,  an  orchid 
stranger,  simply  crying  out  to  Apollo  to  give 
them  my  blessing  as  a  salutation  to  their 
loveliness,  since  I  myself  cannot  speak  their 
language.  It  makes  me  regretful  to  think  that 
the  poems  made  in  their  honor  can  never  be 
translated  for  them.  Yet,  if  I  were  to  choose, 
I  should  rather  have  poems  understood  by 
people  than  by  flowers.  For  flowers  are  beauty, 
nearly  always,  in  their  own  persons,  but 
people,  who  are  rarely  beautiful,  must  have 
beauty  given  to  them. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  tell  of  all  my  ad- 
ventures with  flowers  either  in  California  or 
in  those  Eastern  lands  whither  we  have  been 
carried  by  the  mystic  stream  on  which  The 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  1 2 1 

Dingbat  first  bore  us.  But  because  of  these 
adventures  my  mind  is  full  of  colored  gar- 
dens. My  memory  does  not  need  the  fields 
of  mythological  asphodel,  but  reaches  to 
quiet  earthy  places  where,  in  bright  tufts  of 
spore-bearing  moss,  I  see  shy,  thin-stemmed 
bluets  with  petals  pointing  to  the  four  winds 
and  golden  hearts  like  suns  in  the  midst  of 
skies.  In  the  spring,  while  I  am  still  working 
at  my  desk  in  the  city,  my  spirit  wanders 
at  will  through  the  uplands  of  New  York 
where  the  cool  arbutus  creeps  from  under  moist 
leaves,  or  through  the  fallows  of  New  Jersey, 
while  wild  azaleas  bloom.  In  summer,  no 
matter  where  I  may  be,  I  can  call  to  mind 
the  heavy  odor  of  the  milkweed's  queer, 
reddish  blossoms  near  level,  dusty  roadways, 
or  the  ecstatic  perfume  of  the  wild  grape 
clambering  over  rocks.  The  sleepy  look  of 
red  poppies  in  Devon  is  with  me,  the  pungent 
whiff  of  the  little,  rusty,  button-chrysanthe- 
mum, blossoming  its  best  in  forsaken  gardens 
of  our  Eastern  states. 

It  is  not  merely  that  I  remember  these 
colors  and  fragrances,  but  that  I  remember 
them  as  they  were  in  the  morning,  at  noon, 
at  night,  redolent  of  joy  in  the  new  sight  of 
the  world,  strong  with  the  pride  of  lusty  life, 


1 22  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

or  faint  and  strangely  mingled  with  the  scent 
of  the  moist,  dark  earth. 

Sometimes  the  day's  adventure  may  be 
chance  meeting  with  a  bird.  Jim  and  I  had  a 
most  happy  experience  with  birds  in  a  pine 
wood  in  New  Hampshire  one  summer.  We 
were  sitting  under  a  pine  in  the  silence  that 
belongs  to  good  comrades.  We  had  tramped 
far  that  day  and  at  sundown  we  were  resting 
under  the  trees  and  dreaming  dreams  to- 
gether. When  two  people  can  dream  dreams 
together,  they  do  not  need  to  talk.  Perhaps 
because  we  were  silent  we  heard  from  behind 
one  of  the  trees  a  purely  silver  song.  Jim, 
who  knows  birds  better  than  I  do,  laid  a 
hand  on  mine  and  a  finger  on  his  mouth  to 
enjoin  silence,  but  the  gesture  was  super- 
fluous. I  had  no  desire  to  speak.  This  song 
was  to  me,  also,  the  punctuation  of  our  dream- 
ing, for  as  commas  and  periods  set  intervals 
between  words,  bird-song  sets  intervals  be- 
tween dreams. 

In  a  minute  or  two  more  we  heard  a  sim- 
ilar song  from  another  tree,  a  small  flute  out 
of  Paradise.  The  first  singer  answered.  A 
third  called  from  in  front  of  us.  And  then  the 
first  singer  appeared  where  oblique  rays  of 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  1 23 

the  sun  falling  on  him  showed  a  speckled 
breast  and  rufous  tail.  It  was  the  hermit- 
thrush,  himself  and  no  other.  Singing  he 
walked  among  the  pine  needles,  his  comrades 
answering  him.  The  other  two  joined  him, 
presently,  and  perhaps  a  fourth  was  with 
him,  but  of  that  we  could  not  be  certain. 
They  moved  about  before  us  and  made  their 
music  without  a  thought  of  us,  giving  us  their 
loveHest  and  most  limpid  singing.  We  hardly 
dared  to  breathe  for  fear  of  interrupting  the 
recital.  For  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  we  sat 
and  listened  with  white  awe  upon  us,  and  then 
their  wings  rustled  and  they  were  gone.  The 
place  where  the  rays  of  the  sun  had  fallen  on 
them  was  dark  and  empty.  The  song  was 
sung.   Our  dreams  were  dreamed  too. 

One  other  small  memoir  of  an  adventure 
with  a  bird  I  must  share.  When  it  came  to  us 
we  were  living  in  the  town  of  Superior,  Wis- 
consin. It  was  cold  there  in  winter.  The  snow 
sometimes  lay  four  or  five  feet  deep  for  weeks 
at  a  time  on  wild  land  near  the  town.  The 
thermometer  would  fall  low  and  chilly  days 
as  bright  as  diamonds  would  follow  one  an- 
other, clear  and  still.  Sometimes  we  would 
borrow  snow-shoes  from  our  friends  and  go 
out  of  the  town  into  the  country  to  find  the 


1 24  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

lavender  and  rose-colored  shadows  on  the 
unbounded  fields  of  snow.  We  would  take  a 
coffee-pot  and  coffee,  a  pound  of  bacon,  a  loaf 
of  bread,  and  a  pan  to  cook  with. 

One  day,  when  we  had  run  or  walked  on 
snow-shoes  all  morning  until  we  were  ruddy 
with  health  and  hot  under  our  heavy  clothing, 
we  found  a  place  to  rest  on  a  crust  of  hard 
snow  in  a  hollow  where  winds  did  not  bother 
us.  We  were  surrounded  by  the  protruding 
tops  of  bushes  that  must  have  seemed  quite 
tall  when  the  ground  was  bare.  They  bore 
tufts  of  snow  upon  them  like  white  blossoms, 
the  fair,  false  flowering  of  the  winter.  We 
broke  some  of  these  small  twigs  and  made  a 
fire  with  them.  Jim  found  a  dead  branch  ]of 
a  tree  that  provided  enough  wood  for  cooking. 
I  filled  the  coffee-pot  with  snow — as  clean  as 
air  or  water  could  be  there  in  the  wild  out- 
of-doors — and  when  enough  was  melted  I 
put  in  the  coffee.  We  cut  huge  slices  of  bread 
and  put  slices  of  bacon,  with  dripping,  be- 
tween them.  Never  did  food  taste  more 
delicious  than  this  crude  banquet.  Then, 
warmed  by  exercise  and  fire  and  food,  we 
sat  still  for  a  while,  resting.  The  fire  burned 
itself  away  into  the  drift  which  the  heat  had 
melted.  And  then — 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  125 

"Chickadee-dee-dee  !'* 

Small  brother  chickadee,  perched  on  one 
of  the  snowy  bushes,  wanted  dinner.  We  fed 
him  crumbs  of  our  bread.  A  small  and  impu- 
dent beggar  he  was,  hungry  and  jolly.  His 
energetic  throat  said  many  a  quaint  grace. 

**Chickadee-dee-chickadee !" 

Such  a  dark,  fluttering  Httle  fellow  seemed 
out  of  place  and  out  of  proportion  in  that  wild, 
white,  motionless  winter  world.  But  there  he 
was,  busy  and  very  much  alive.  I  can  not 
look  at  the  blanched  beauty  of  snow  in  such 
a  stretch  of  country  without  remembering 
his  queer,  dear,  merry  little  song  when  he 
first  cocked  his  head  and  looked  at  us. 

Sometimes  the  day's  adventure  may  mean 
simply  facing  rough  weather.  My  experience 
in  the  open  has  made  me  feel  sure  enough 
to  dogmatize;  there  is  no  such  thing  as  *'bad" 
weather.  Who  are  we  that  we  should  fasten 
that  malevolent  Httle  adjective  ''bad''  upon 
weather  that  merely  fails  to  serve  our  utili- 
tarian purposes  and  our  self-indulgent  ideas 
of  comfort?  Indeed,  if  beauty  is  to  be  judged 
by  its  rarity,  a  great  storm  may  be  the  great- 
est weather  and  the  most  beautiful.  By 
paraphrase  the  devout  and  daring  person  may 


1 26  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

well  say,  "Though  it  slay  me,  yet  will  I  love 
it!"  To  like  only  weather  that  is  blue  and 
white  and  golden  and  placid  is  to  be  limited 
in  the  love  of  beauty. 

This  may  be  the  secret  of  the  scorn,  usually 
veiled,  that  men  who  have  known  Nature  in 
all  weathers,  suffered  her  and  dominated  her, 
feel  for  the  pale-eyed  and  pale-skinned  crea- 
ture of  comfort.  However  this  may  be,  this 
I  know,  that  they  who  can  outface  a  storm 
and  exult  in  it  have  a  clew  to  the  meaning 
of  life  which  can  help  them  to  triumph,  also, 
in  the  vicissitudes  of  the  intellectual  and 
spiritual  experience. 

Considered  quite  apart  from  the  damage 
it  may  do,  a  storm  is  supremely  beautiful. 
Somebody  told  me  this  when  I  was  a  little 
girl  and  the  thought  came  to  me  with  a  thrill 
of  surprise,  for  it  was  a  new  gospel.  Most  of 
the  people  in  my  small  world  disliked  storms. 
That  one  person  made  life  richer  for  me  by 
telling  me  the  truth.  I  have  two  memories 
of  storms  that  have  remained  with  me  long. 

One  was  a  great  wind  storm  on  the  prairie 
in  the  Middle  West.  It  came  after  a  long, 
still,  sultry  summer  day,  in  the  late  after- 
noon. I  felt  the  stillness  deepen  and  strengthen 
around  me  like  the  self-restraint  that  hushes 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  1 27 

anger.  Then  huge  clouds  bunched  themselves 
together  in  the  West.  I  stood  and  watched. 
I  saw  a  Hne  of  trees,  a  windbreak,  far  away, 
so  far  that  I  could  not  tell  their  kind.  One 
moment  they  were  perfectly  still.  The  next 
made  them  toss  their  branches  madly  as  if 
they  were  wild  with  grief  or  pain.  In  front  of 
them  a  field  of  corn  yielded  to  shadows  and 
swayed  as  if  some  terrible  hand  had  stroked 
each  corn-stalk,  bending  it,  crushing  it  to 
the  very  earth.  The  great  wind  was  coming 
toward  me,  nearer  and  nearer.  But  I  did  not 
stir.  I  told  myself  that  when  it  came  I  would 
lie  down.  It  caught  the  near  fields  of  grass 
and  rang  over  them,  and  sang  over  them  while 
the  air  around  me  was  still  and  sultry.  I 
was  fascinated.  A  group  of  willows  quite  near 
me  jerked  their  tops  forward  suddenly  with 
the  impact  of  that  rushing  gust  upon  them. 
Then  they  tumbled  and  tossed  their  branches 
about  uproariously  in  the  rushing  air  that 
took  and  tore  them.  The  wind  crossed  the 
short  stretch  of  grass  between  those  trees  and 
me  and  then  beat  against  my  face,  my  throat, 
my  breast,  my  limbs,  with  cold  and  savage 
fury.  My  breath  was  blown  back  into  my 
nostrils.  My  hair  was  ripped  loose  from 
around  my  forehead.    My  throat  and  body 


128  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

felt  sudden  cold  like  the  water  of  a  trout 
brook  in  April.  The  invisible  legions  of  the 
air  pushed  me  back,  back,  back,  step  by  step. 
I  gave  way  before  the  pressure  of  their  chilly, 
unseen,  powerful  hands.  I  fell  upon  my  face 
and  waited.  Sticks  and  leaves  from  far  away 
were  blown  down  upon  me.  Even  upon  the 
earth,  flat  and  humble,  I  could  not  evade  that 
magnificent  rage.  It  went  bellowing  over  my 
head  into  the  East.  And  then,  as  suddenly 
as  it  had  come,  it  stopped.  Rain  fell  quietly 
on  a  cool  world  and  tears  came  into  my  eyes. 
The  other  storm  that  I  remember  was  a 
thunder-storm  at  night  by  a  riverside  in 
Canada.  Jim  and  I  were  lying  in  our  tent, 
unable,  for  one  reason  or  another,  to  get  much 
sleep.  Perhaps  it  was  because  Nature  herself 
could  not  rest.  The  air  was  disturbed  and  yet 
stagnant.  Then  there  came  a  heavy  groaning 
and  sudden  shocks  of  distant  sound  like  the 
heavy  breathing  of  Vulcan  and  the  falling 
of  hammers  on  his  anvil.  We  saw  far  lightning 
like  the  flying  of  sparks.  The  noise  increased. 
Mars  and  Thor  had  been  awakened  over 
Scandinavia  and  Hellas  and  were  hurling  loud 
words  at  each  other.  They  threw  the  lances 
of  Heaven  about  and  the  lightning  became 
frequent  and  Hvid.    As  each  spear  of  light 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  129 

fell  and  broke  in  pieces  upon  the  floor  of 
Heaven  we  saw  the  jagged  lines  of  fall  and 
fracture.  The  earth  under  us  seemed  solid, 
but  that  floor  of  Heaven,  on  which  those 
terrible  figures  trod,  shook  under  them  and, 
when  they  came  to  grips  and  wrestled,  rocked 
with  their  power.  Perhaps  that  is  why  we 
on  earth  saw  a  glory  of  dark  trees  suddenly 
illumined  by  lightning,  with  leaves  that  had 
been  like  black  masses  in  the  darkness  sud- 
denly etched  sharply  upon  a  clear  background, 
then  blackened  into  vagueness  again.  Such 
a  glory  of  splashing  rain  upon  the  vexed  black 
surface  of  the  river!  Such  a  smell  of  sweetness 
in  air  that  had  been  stale  as  fever!  And  then 
one  great  bolt  flying,  one  barbaric  splendid 
burst  of  crashing  sound,  as  if  the  floor  of 
Heaven  had  given  way  under  terrible  feet, 
as  if  one  great  god  had  hurled  the  other 
through  the  gap !  After  that,  silence.  Later  we 
heard  the  booming  of  the  forge  of  Vulcan  and 
saw  the  sparks  flying  from  it  again.  At  last  even 
that  noise  faded  into  silence,  and  we  slept. 

Sometimes  our  adventures  have  been  ex- 
cursions into  the  hearts  and  minds  of  our 
kind.  One  such  adventure  came  to  us  when 
we  were  camping  on  the  banks  of  the  Tobique, 


130  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

a  swift,  bright  tributary  of  the  St.  John,  flow- 
ing through  New  Brunswick.  The  fishermen 
and  guides  who  lived  on  the  banks  were  kind 
souls.  When  they  saw  that  we  went  in  swim- 
ming every  day  they  warned  us  against  the 
water,  saying  that  we  would  get  "water 
poisoning*'  if  we  kept  on. 

The  river  was  fed  by  sweet  springs  and 
rivulets.  Salmon  and  trout  that  will  not  live 
in  foul  streams  were  plentiful  in  it.  Yet  these 
men  would  not  go  in  swimming  for  fear  of 
being  poisoned.  We  talked  over  their  advice, 
and  considered  it,  but  the  weather  was  hot 
and  we  decided  to  disregard  it.  Day  after 
day  we  took  our  swim.  We  were  not  poisoned. 
Then  came  a  very  hot  day.  The  men  all  took  a 
chance,  went  in,  and  came  out  with  fairer  faces. 
Nobody,  so  far  as  we  know,  was  ever  poisoned. 
I  hope  we  broke  the  wicked  fairy's  spell. 

One  of  these  fishermen,  an  old  man  wise 
in  the  lore  of  the  woods,  who  had  brought 
down  many  a  moose  and  bear  in  his  time,  was 
as  exquisitely  tactful,  in  his  own  way,  as  the 
hero  of  "A  Hundred  Collars"  by  Robert 
Frost.  Tact  is  supposed  to  be  a  sophisticated 
virtue — or  vice — but  this  man  proved  that 
it  might  also  inhere  in  the  unlettered. 

He  knew   that  Jim   had   been   longing   to 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  131 

take  a  salmon  and  that  he  had  had  no  luck, 
although  the  river  was  full  of  them.  They 
could  not  be  seen  from  the  banks  because  of 
the  swirling  lights  in  the  ripples.  But  when 
we  climbed  up  into  trees  and  looked  down  we 
could  see  long  streaks  of  silver-gray  against 
the  light  sand-color  of  the  stream's  bed. 

Came  a  morning  when  the  old  man  took  his 
old  boat  and  his  old  rod  and  Jim's  fine  new 
reel  and  pulled  out  into  a  quiet  part  of  the 
river  where  he  sat,  rod  in  hand,  for  several 
hours.  Then  a  strike!  He  began  to  play  his 
fish.  He  knew  that  Jim  had  been  watching 
from  the  bank.  He  feigned  difficulty.  He 
beckoned  as  if  he  were  calling  for  help.  And 
so,  while  he  played  the  fish  back  and  forth 
and  round  about,  Jim,  in  answer  to  the  signal, 
put  out  from  shore  in  our  canoe,  paddled 
up  above  the  old  man's  boat,  shipped  his 
paddle,  and  let  the  canoe  slide  softly  down. 
He  got  into  the  boat  with  the  old  man  and 
pushed  the  canoe  hard  away  to  the  right 
where  he  knew  it  would  catch  on  a  log  boom. 
Then  he  pulled  the  old  man's  boat  toward 
shore.  When  they  stepped  out  into  water 
thigh-deep,  the  salmon  was  still  active,  lash- 
ing and  threshing  his  way  through  the  "poi- 
soned'* waters  of  the  river. 


132  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

"Can  you  gaff  him?"  said  the  old  man  to 
Jim  when  he  began  to  reel  in.  He  must  have 
taken  hundreds  of  salmon  in  his  time,  but 
he  pretended  to  be  needing  help. 

*'ril  try,"  said  Jim,  excitedly,  *'but  I  never 
have." 

**Mebbe  you'd  better  take  the  line,  then," 
said  the  old  man,  putting  the  reel  into  Jim*s 
hands  and  surrendering  his  catch.  "I'll  gaff 
him." 

He  took  the  gaff-hook  and  waited  while 
Jim  reeled.  At  last,  suddenly,  when  the  salmon 
shot  forward  desperately  between  his  very 
legs,  he  gaffed  it.  And  in  some  inexplicable 
way  Jim  was  made  to  feel  that  the  catch  was 
really  his  and  could  not  have  been  made 
without  his  assistance. 

This  same  old  man  told  us  how  to  catch  the 
trout  and  where.  In  tributaries  of  the  To- 
bique,  Jim  caught  a  hundred  and  thirty-two 
in  one  afternoon.  We  shared  them  with  all 
of  our  neighbors  so  that  none  were  wasted. 
They  were  not  large,  but  they  were  delicious 
aristocrats. 

Every  camper  has  his  own  favorite  way  of 
cooking  trout.  We  fry  ours  in  olive  oil. 
Bacon  fat,  generally  used,  is  good,  but  over- 
comes the  delicate  flavor  of  the  trout,  so  that 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  133 

what  the  camper  tastes  is  bacon.  The  sweet- 
ness of  the  trout  can  be  savored  perfectly 
when  they  are  fried  in  olive  oil.  First  we  take 
each  freshly  caught  fish  and  clean  it  and  wash 
it  in  clear  water.  Then  we  lift  it  up  to  let 
the  sunlight  bless  it.  Then,  with  sincere 
affection  we  dip  it  in  a  mixture  of  flour,  corn- 
meal,  pepper,  and  salt,  and  lay  it  in  a  pan 
in  which  the  oil  is  already  hot.  We  fry  to  a 
mild  brown  and  serve  with  coffee  and,  if 
there  be  any  at  hand,  with  cress  or  sour-grass. 
Wild  chives,  also,  cut  up  between  slices  of 
bread  and  butter,  are  very  good  with  trout. 
Sometimes,  as  everybody  knows,  trout  will 
not  bite.  Then  the  hungry  camper  is  wise 
if  he  will  fish  for  eels.  Our  kind  old  friend 
taught  us  that  art.  He  bade  us  build  a  fire 
of  driftwood  near  the  water's  edge,  in  the 
evening.  Then  we  baited  our  lines  with  stale 
meat  and  fish  scraps  and  threw  them  in.  The 
eels,  attracted  to  the  shore  by  the  light  of 
our  fire,  took  our  bait  almost  at  once.  We 
hauled  them  out,  each  one  a  writhing,  wrig- 
gling, twisting,  squirming  body,  marvelously 
muscular  and  energetic,  tying  itself  into  slip- 
pery, oozy  knots  and  loops.  It  was  difficult  to 
get  the  hooks  out  of  them.  Many  had  to  be  de- 
capitated.   Even  then  they  kept  on  wriggling. 


1 34  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

After  we  had  caught  enough  the  woodsmen 
showed  Jim  how  to  skin  them.  The  skin  is 
worked  loose  at  the  neck  in  just  the  right 
way  and  then  pulled  off  backward,  like  a  glove. 
Even  while  this  is  going  on  the  dead  eel  writhes 
and  twists.  Then  we  cut  them  into  pieces 
three  or  four  inches  long  and  dropped  them 
into  a  pail  of  salted  water  to  stand  over  night. 

When  frying  time  came  we  learned  to  use 
plenty  of  hot  fat  over  a  slow  fire,  to  drop  in 
the  sections  properly  floured  and  to  fry  them 
until  we  were  sure  that  they  had  been  cooked 
too  long.  Then  we  cooked  them  even  longer. 
Eels,  to  be  good  eating,  must  have  patient, 
thorough  cooking.  When  they  have  been  well 
cooked  they  wriggle  no  more,  but  are  firm, 
and  sweet,  and  rich. 

But  the  joy  of  joys  for  the  palate  is  Canadian 
maple  sugar.  It  has  the  flavor  of  a  whole 
forest  in  it  and  sings  upon  the  tongue  like 
many  birds.  To  eat  it  at  the  end  of  a  scanty 
meal  is  to  swallow  fairyland! 


[VII] 


[VII] 

jDays  and  months  passed  and  the  mystic 
ripples  of  our  lives  carried  us  home  into  our 
own  country  and  into  the  State  of  New  York. 
There  we  learned  what  it  is  Hke  to  camp  out 
of  doors  in  the  early  spring  when  snow  still 
blotches  the  dark  earth  of  shadowed  places 
with  a  waning  and  ghostly  white.  It  was  early 
in  April,  the  Easter  vacation,  when  we  made 
our  first  spring  trip  for  which  all  of  our  friends 
prophesied  disaster. 

We  were  traveling  in  funny  little  Frankie 
Ford,  this  time,  and  were  exceedingly  proud 
of  him  as  our  first  car  although  life  had  dealt 
hardly  with  him  and  his  personal  appearance 
showed  the  effects  of  stress  and  strain.  We 
could  truly  say  that  he  was  far  from  his  end. 
His  radiator  was  puckered  and  wrinkled  and 
he  wore  his  top  rakishly,  but  what  a  soul — 
what  an  engine — he  had!  We  went  on  and  on 
and  he  enjoyed  it. 

When  Jim  and  I  go  out  on  the  open  road 
it  pleases  us  not  to  know  exactly  where  we 
are  going  or  when  we  shall  get  there.  A 
destination  is  more  troublesome  than  much 


138  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

luggage.  If  we  have  one  folded  up  with  our 
blankets,  we  find  it  necessary  to  forego  many 
a  pleasant  chat  by  the  wayside.  Therefore 
we  usually  leave  our  destination  at  home  with 
our  best  clothes.  They  belong  together.  But, 
as  it  happens,  we  began  this  trip  by  traveling 
up  the  east  shore  of  the  Hudson  toward  Troy. 

For  several  days  the  weather  had  been 
mild  and  balmy.  The  willows  were  yellowing 
and  the  brush  in  the  swamps  reddening  with 
the  spring.  The  birds  were  returning  for  their 
season  of  mirth.  But  as  we  drove  on  past 
awakening  fields  and  dreaming  fallows  it 
turned  colder  and  began  to  rain.  We  crossed 
the  river  and  turned  south  on  the  west  side 
after  purchasing  a  pound  of  steak  in  one  of 
the  villages  so  that  we  could  be  sure  of  some- 
thing for  supper  no  matter  where  we  might 
camp.  The  thermometer  dropped  and  the 
rain  changed  to  sleet.  This  was  food  for 
thought.  Our  good  tent  would  bear  any 
amount  of  water  without  leaking,  but  what 
about  ice?  We  could  not  afford  to  let  it  be 
cut. 

We  drove  on,  wondering  what  to  do,  fol- 
lowing perfect  country  roads  through  a  dear, 
gray,  chilly  drizzle  until  we  saw  a  tall,  roomy, 
old-fashioned  farm-house  ahead  of  us,  with  a 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  139 


big  barn  near  at  hand.  The  place  looked 
hospitable  and  wholesome.  Some  houses  wear 
the  auras  of  their  owners.  And  by  that  time 
we  were  wet  and  chilled  through.  It  was 
beginning  to  be  windy.  Jim  went  to  the  door 
of  the  house  and  asked  permission  to  sleep 
in  the  barn. 

The  lady  of  the  house  looked  us  over 
keenly.  Then  she  invited  us  to  spend  the 
night  in  her  guest-room.  It  was  against  our 
principles  to  accept  that  invitation,  for  we 
hold  that  camping  is  not  merely  for  pleasure, 
but  also  for  discipline.  The  camper  who 
takes  the  soft  way  too  easily  will  miss  the 
hard  joys  of  the  road.  Our  camping  con- 
sciences troubled  us  even  in  the  thought  of 
the  comfort  of  a  barn,  but  we  satisfied  them 
with  the  thought  that  we  could  not  afford 
to  spoil  our  tent.  All  this  we  explained  to 
the  kind  woman  in  the  doorway.  She  allowed 
us  to  spend  the  night  in  her  barn. 

But  she  would  not  let  us  use  our  primus 
lamp  for  cooking.  She  took  us  into  a  lean-to 
where  she  had  been  ironing  all  afternoon  and 
where  a  good  fire  still  burned.  There  she 
bade  us  get  warm  and  cook  our  supper.  It 
was  luxurious.  We  fried  our  pound  of  steak 
with   some  onions   and   made   cocoa.    While 


140  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

we  were  feasting  on  this  already  plentiful 
fare  our  hostess  brought  in  a  jar  of  her  best 
preserved  cherries  and  offered  them  to  us 
for  dessert.  They  were  carefully  pitted,  rich, 
winy,  delicious.  She  also  provided  a  dozen 
big  apples  that  had  come  safely  through  the 
winter  in  her  cool  cellar.  We  ate  our  bountiful 
repast  with  glee  and,  after  tidying  up  the 
room,  went  out  to  the  barn. 

It  was  clean  and  airy.  We  took  a  few 
forkfuls  of  hay  over  into  one  corner,  spread 
our  blankets  thereon,  and,  as  we  drifted  off 
to  sleep,  listened  to  what  Hamlin  Garland 
astutely  calls  the  "comfortable  sound*'  of 
''bosses  chawin'  hay.'*  Never  was  I  more 
intimately  friendly  with  horses! 

A  few  days  later  I  learned  how  strong  the 
friendship  between  man  and  horse  can  be. 
We  had  stopped  and  asked  permission  to  put 
up  our  tent  in  the  brookside  meadow  of  a 
fine,  clean-looking  farm.  The  farmer  was  a 
big,  wholesome,  child  like  man  who  gave  per- 
mission rather  than  be  surly.  But  he  had 
misgivings.  While  he  was  doing  his  evening 
chores  in  the  barn-yard,  he  would  walk  over 
to  the  fence  that  separated  it  from  the  meadow 
and  take  an  occasional  uneasy  look  at  us. 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  141 

Would  we  steal  his  chickens  ?  Would  we  set  the 
woodlot  ablaze?  He  was  probably  wondering. 
I  made  a  haphazard  effort  to  be  agreeable. 

"You  have  a  fine  horse!'' 

The  trouble  left  his  face  and  he  grinned 
broadly.  Perhaps  we  were  all  right,  after  all, 
if  I  knew  a  good  horse.  It  was  more  than  a 
good  horse  to  him.    It  was  his  treasure. 

**Guess  how  old  he  is!"  said  he. 

I  did  not  know  how  old  a  horse  ought  to 
be  to  be  right,  so  I  was  politely  evasive. 

*Tifteen  years.  Born  on  the  place,  he  was. 
I  raised  him  from  a  colt.  He's  a  wonder. 
Come  here,  Peter." 

Much  to  my  surprise  the  horse  walked 
across  the  barn-yard  to  his  master  as  a  dog 
would  have  done. 

*'Kiss  me,  Peter." 

Peter  promptly  covered  the  farmer's  face 
with  the  wettest  of  wet  kisses.  Inwardly, 
invisibly,  and  inaudibly,  I  shuddered.  Just 
how  much  will  mankind  endure  for  affection's 
sake? 

''He'll  follow  my  wife  around,  asking  for 
sugar.  He'll  go  to  the  back  door  for  it.  He 
don't  know  anything  but  kindness.  Nobody 
else  ever  had  him.  I  ain't  ever  let  him  work  out. 
He's  one  of  the  family,  he  is.  He's  human"! 


1 42  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

I  could  not  help  wondering  how  many 
human  beings  in  the  world  are  like  that  horse 
in  that  they  know  nothing  but  kindness!  But 
as  Blake  says, 

"The  beggar's  dog  and  the  widow's  cat, 
Feed  them  and  thou  shalt  grow  fat." 

I  did  not  grudge  the  intelligent  beast  his 
happiness.  I  could  not  help  praising  him. 
That  established  us  in  the  regard  of  the  farmer, 
his  wife  and  his  children.  Cool  milk  from  the 
milk-room  was  offered  to  us  and  sweet  apples 
from  the  bin. 

We  drove  through  New  Jersey  and  turned 
toward  Delaware  Water  Gap.  A  day  came 
slightly  overcast  with  clouds.  We  looked  for 
an  early  twilight.  But  it  was  already  upon  us 
when  we  began  to  look  for  a  place  to  spend 
the  night  and  it  was  dark  before  we  rolled 
along  to  a  curve  where  a  narrow,  rutty  dirt 
road  turned  off  from  the  main  road  into  a 
strip  of  light  woodland  and  fallow  beside  a 
swift  and  narrow  stream.  We  stopped,  cooked 
our  supper,  and  pitched  camp  in  a  hollow 
near  it. 

In  the  morning,  when  I  opened  my  eyes,  I 
saw  that  we  had  rested  in  a  bed  of  dog-tooth 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  143 

violets.  Looking  out  across  the  earth  with  my 
eyes  on  a  level  with  it  made  them  seem  like 
an  army  of  yellow  elves  coming  to  storm  the 
citadel  of  my  mind.  I  capitulated  at  once. 
When  we  arose  that  morning  there  was  a 
blessing  on  us  and  we  knew  it.  We  made 
coffee,  fried  bacon,  and  toasted  bread  joy- 
fully. Then,  before  we  went  on,  we  covered 
the  remains  of  our  fire  with  water,  earth, 
and  moss  that  no  black  ashes  might  make  an 
ugly  spot  in  that  perfect  place. 

We  went  on  toward  Delaware  Water  Gap, 
driving  rapidly  and  living  frugally  with  our 
bodies,  but  for  our  spirits  it  was  to  be  a  day 
of  miracles.  At  noon  we  stopped  on  a  country 
road  that  crossed  a  brown-shadowed  stream 
which  looked  as  if  it  might  be  a  happy  home 
for  trout.  We  had  only  tea  and  bread  and 
butter  for  luncheon,  so,  while  I  prepared  it, 
I  told  Jim  to  try  a  cast  or  two.  At  the  first 
cast  he  pulled  out  a  fine  trout  which  we 
promptly  fried  and  shared.  Again  we  were 
Dlessed.   We  went  on  happily. 

Early  that  afternoon  we  found  the  trout- 
stream  for  which  we  were  looking  and,  as  a 
light  haze  descended  on  the  land  near  it, 
between  the  little  hills  that  guided  the  flowing 
of  it,  we  pitched  camp  in  a  meadow  still  clad 


1 44  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

with  last  year's  grass,  now  being  lifted  by 
the  spring's  new  green  blades.  The  trout- 
brook  made  promises  to  us  all  night  long 
of  what  it  would  do  for  us  next  day.  The 
mild  air  gave  us  slow,  deep  breathing.  Again 
we  were  blessed. 

Morning  came  warm  and  sparkling.  We 
took  our  tackle  and  trudged  up-stream,  fishing 
as  we  went.  Above  the  meadow  where  we 
had  camped  the  stream  ran  through  wilder 
and  more  troublesome  country,  over  mighty 
boulders,  between  rough  and  jagged  banks 
covered  with  dense  undergrowth  and  brooded 
over  by  stalwart  trees.  We  found  a  clear, 
delicious  spring  and  drank  deeply. 

After  a  long  walk  we  were  hot  and  came 
upon  a  pool  where  it  would  be  just  possible 
to  swim  a  few  strokes.  Below  it  were  two 
great  rocks  and  a  plunging  gush  of  waters 
between  them.  We  went  in  swimming.  Cold, 
cold  as  ice  recently  melted,  but  stinging  sweet 
to  the  spirit  that  loves  hardship,  was  that 
clean  water.  Shuddering  for  a  moment  when 
the  water  first  clashed  upon  us,  then  rising 
to  feel  the  kindly  warmth  of  the  sun,  we  were 
blessed  once  more.  If  death  should  be  like 
that.  .  .  . 

I  sat  enthroned  between  two  gaunt  rocks 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  145 

with  water  rushing  headlong  across  my  shoul- 
ders. It  seemed  as  if  such  cool,  clear  energy 
must  wash  away  not  only  the  fevers  and 
foibles  of  this  world,  but  even  faults  and 
flaws.  In  that  chilly  dazzle  of  flying  sunlight 
and  leaping  water  I  could  not  think  ill  of 
any  one,  not  even  of  myself.  When  I  changed 
my  wet  clothing  for  dry  I  was  clean  of  heart. 
And  on  the  way  back  I  picked  long  streamers 
of  ground  moss  and  little  vines  newly  budded 
out,  a  few  sprigs  of  arbutus,  and  one  blood- 
root,  the  wonder-star  of  April.  We  caught 
few  fish  that  day,  but  we  were  content. 

At  supper-time  it  was  cool  and  a  light  wind 
blew  up.  The  wind  grew  bolder  and  colder. 
By  ten  o*clock  as  much  of  a  gale  as  the  little 
valley  could  well  hold  was  blowing  over  us. 
For  once  the  tent  would  not  stay  in  place  over 
the  top  of  our  car,  or  anywhere  else.  It  was 
made  of  light  material  and  we  were  afraid 
it  would  be  torn  to  ribbons  if  we  left  it  up. 
We  took  it  down  and  tucked  it  over  us  flat 
on  the  ground.  The  wind  ripped  and  tore  at 
it  even  there  and  sometimes  it  slithered  across 
our  faces.  The  night  grew  colder  and  colder. 
Jim  let  the  water  out  of  Frankie  Ford's 
radiator  for  fear  it  might  freeze.  A  film  of  ice 
showed  on   the  water  in  our  drinking  pail. 


146  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

The  ground  under  us  stiffened  and  then  froze 
hard.  Yet  under  the  blankets  and  the  tent, 
wrapped  in  our  warmest  clothing,  we  were  not 
cold. 

Rising  in  the  morning  was  another  matter. 
When  I  went  out  to  make  a  fire  the  gale  blew 
this  way  and  that.  We  were  obliged  to  set 
our  small  primus  stove  inside  the  car  in  order 
to  cook  on  it.  I  washed  hands  and  face  in 
the  stream  in  which  I  had  been  swimming 
happily  the  day  before,  and  the  cold  of  wind 
and  water  now  made  my  fingers  stiff  and  numb 
so  that  I  fumbled  badly  with  the  frying-pan 
and  the  coffee-pot.  But  when  I  was  once 
warmed  through  by  a  good  breakfast  I  got 
joy  of  that  gusty  morning,  such  joy  in  hard- 
ship as  I  had  never  known  before.  Truly,  I 
had  been  blessed. 

These  things,  frost  and  wind,  realities  of 
the  physical  life  to  which  we  had  gone  back 
for  a  time,  were  they  not  fit  symbols  of  the 
stresses  of  the  life  that  we  had  left?  These 
things,  frost  and  wind,  had  been  conquered 
by  man,  the  indomitable,  long  ages  before 
my  birth.  By  claiming  our  share  in  that 
heritage  of  conquest  might  we  not  conquer, 
also,  in  the  end,  that  world  of  stone  and 
steel    realities    wherein    men    and    women    of 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  147 

to-day  face  dangers  and  difficulties  more  subtle 
than  any  that  their  forefathers  knew?  Per- 
haps it  is  here  that  the  first  lesson  begins. 

So  it  has  been  for  me.  So  may  it  be  for 
others.  For  it  is  an  inexpensive  blessedness 
that  I  have  found  to  save  my  soul  alive  in 
me  when  I  have  taken  to  the  highways  and 
waterways  that  lead  to  the  shrine  of  the  first 
faith.  At  this  shrine  I  have  found  bravery 
for  my  fear,  and  wisdom  for  my  doubt,  and 
life  to  do  battle  with  life  again. 

Never  do  I  return  from  these  adventures 
in  the  open  with  Jim  without  longing  to  go 
out  on  another.  I  shall  dream  of  going  again 
and  again  until  the  last  time — then,  at  last, 
to  remain.  As  my  flesh  grows  frail  with  the 
growing  strength  of  my  spirit,  I  should  like 
to  rise  slowly  in  the  long,  blue  brilliance  of 
night,  and  seize  the  horns  of  the  crescent 
moon  and  jump  over  it,  between  them,  as  a 
child  jumps  over  a  rope.  Once  over  it,  and 
in  the  Milky  Way,  I  should  like  to  fling  all 
my  sins  and  sorrows  into  the  Great  Dipper, 
and  listen  until  I  hear  them  clink  upon  the 
bottom  of  it.  Then  I  should  like  to  find  all 
the  time  that  I  have  lost.  I  should  like  to 
float  out  among  the  stars,  seeking  a  new 
beauty. 


1 4  8  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

One  great  joy  of  the  road  is  not  knowing 
what  acquaintances  we  shall  make  or  how  we 
shall  make  them.  Getting  acquainted  with 
people  is  a  dullard's  adventure  if  you  know 
all  about  them  ahead  of  time.  But  if  you  must 
learn  the  meaning  of  a  human  being  from  the 
poise  of  the  head,  the  flash  of  the  eye,  the 
locking  of  the  jaws,  the  behavior  of  the  fingers, 
and  from  the  individual  life,  communicable 
and  yet  inexplicable,  which  animates  all  of 
these,  then  a  meeting  is  an  inviting  hazard. 
With  letters  of  introduction  we  may  meet 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Brown  Jones  Smith. 
Without  them  we  may  find  Socrates  in  a 
general  store  at  the  cross-roads,  Le  Penseur 
on  a  lonely  hill,  and  Saint  Francis  and  Ther- 
sites  tramping  side  by  side  along  a  dusty 
road;  we  may  even  have  the  good  fortune  to 
hear  Confucius  talking  to  his  disciples  of 
"poetry,  history,  and  the  up-keep  of  courtesy." 

We  enjoy  the  complex  simplicities  of  pio- 
neering in  the  hearts  and  minds  of  our  kind. 
People  who  seem  quite  commonplace  to  them- 
selves and  to  their  neighbors  shine  for  us 
with  a  light  well  known  before  there  were 
candles,  the  ancient  light  of  romance.  For 
us  they  wear  the  plumes  of  knights,  the  caps 
of  goblins,  the  haloes  of  saints,  the  garlands 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  149 

of  delectable  sinners,  without  ever  knowing 
that  they  are  clad  in  more  than  serge  or 
gingham.  And  sometimes  the  light  is  reflected 
upon  us,  who  seem  quite  commonplace  to 
ourselves  save  in  moments  of  elation.  What 
could  be  more  delightful  to  a  couple  well- 
advanced  toward  middle  age? 

Once,  when  we  were  driving  through  New 
Jersey  in  Frankie  Ford,  the  ramshackle  and 
rakish,  we  were  allowed  to  feel  the  'radiance 
of  this  glamour  upon  us.  It  was  late  summer 
and  the  road  was  dusty.  Great  wreaths  of 
dust  whirled  past  us  through  sultry  air, 
dimming  our  eyes  and  making  our  hair 
gritty.  As  for  Frankie,  the  gray  of  the  dust 
was  so  thick  on  him  that  only  clairvoyance 
could  have  told  his  true  color.  Jim  subdued 
him  to  about  ten  miles  an  hour  and  we  rolled 
slowly  through  a  small  town,  looking  for  a 
place  where  it  would  be  possible  to  stop  and 
prepare  supper.  Ahead  of  us,  as  far  as  we 
could  see,  dust  was  thick  over  the  road  and 
gray  as  death.  By  all  the  laws  of  hygiene 
and  aesthetics  it  would  be  wrong  to  stop 
where  we  were  for  the  purpose  of  eating.  I 
looked  about  me  anxiously. 

Then  I  saw,  at  one  side  of  the  road,  a  rusty- 
colored,  benevolent,  old-fashioned  house.     A 


1 50  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

stubby  hedge  enclosed  a  lawn  on  which  a  hose 
was  playing.  On  a  veranda,  in  a  chair  tilted 
back  against  the  wall,  sat  an  old  gentleman 
in  rusty  black.  His  feet  hung  limp  without 
touching  the  floor.  His  head  was  sunk  on 
his  breast.  I  gave  little  thought  to  him  then, 
however,  for  I  was  looking  at  the  lawn  (how 
good  it  would  be  to  sit  on!)  and  at  the  hose 
(how  good  it  would  be  to  get  under  the 
spray!).  I  stepped  out  of  Frankie.  Said  I  to 
Jim: 

"FU  ask  that  old  gentleman  to  let  us  eat 
supper  on  his  lawn.'' 

Never  before  had  we  asked  such  a  privilege. 
We  had  cooked  our  meals  in  meadows  and 
orchards,  but  never  on  a  lawn  near  a  home. 
I  went  quickly  for  fear  of  losing  courage. 

"Pardon  me,  sir,  but  we  have  been  traveling 
all  day  and  are  tired.  The  road  is  dusty.  May 
we  eat  our  supper  on  your  lawn?" 

The  chair  tilted  forward  and  the  old  gentle- 
man sat  up.  His  spirit  came  back  from  that 
mazy  region  unexplored  by  youth  to  which 
old  people  go  when  they  are  alone.  He  took 
a  good  look  at  me  and  kindly  amusement 
flickered  in  his  eyes.  He  got  up. 

**Why,  yes,"  he  said;  "come  along  in,  come 
along  in." 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 


Ki 


He  beckoned  to  Jim,  who  whirled  Frankie 
about  and  brought  him  to  a  stop  beside  the 
stubby  hedge.  The  old  gentleman  hurried 
over  to  get  acquainted  with  him.  He  was 
alert  now,  and  twinkled  with  activity  and 
talk. 

"Campin',  eh?  Well,  now  that's  certainly 
fine.  Nothin'  better  'n  campin'.  Got  supper 
all  ready,  have  you?" 

"We  have  bread  and  butter,"  said  I,  *'but 
if  you  would  let  us  light  our  small  gasoline 
stove — it  won't  hurt  the  grass — we  could  cook 
beefsteak  and  onions.  .  .  ." 

"Steak  and  onions!  Just  the  thing!  No  thin' 
better  'n  steak  and  onions.  If  I  hadn't  had 
my  own  supper,  I'd  just  ask  you  folks  to  let 
me  in  on  it." 

He  was  as  excited  as  if  he  were  giving  a 
party. 

"Mama,"  he  called  to  one  of  the  windows 
at  the  back  of  the  house,  "Mama,  let  these 
folks  in  and  give  'em  a  chance  to  wash  at 
the  pump  on  the  stoop." 

W^e  came  out  with  clean  faces  and  clear 
eyes.  We  sat  down  on  the  cool  lawn.  We 
lighted  our  stove  and  I  filled  a  pan  with  steak 
and  onions.  The  old  gentleman  walked  around 
us,  smoking  a  pipe,  talking  volubly  between 


152  The  'Dingbat  of  Arcady 

puffs,  and  apparently  delighted  with  his 
queer,  uninvited  guests.  He  told  us  how  he 
used  to  go  camping  when  he  was  a  young 
man.  But  he  had  come  home,  now,  home 
to  what  David  Morton  calls  **the  rooted 
certainties.** 

'*If  my  wife  had  Hked  it,  we  might  have 
kept  it  up,*'  he  would  say.  That  is  what  many 
men  tell  us  when  they  talk  with  us  of  our 
adventures.  And  the  house-bound  women  say 
wistfully,  "If  it  wasn't  for  the  children  .  .  .** 

While  we  were  still  eating,  one  of  our  host's 
old  cronies  stopped  beside  the  stubby  hedge. 

"Havin*  a  picnic,  Joe?" 

With  something  of  the  air  of  a  Barnum,  it 
must  be  admitted,  the  old  gentleman  hurried 
over  to  explain.   He  made  a  good  story. 

"These  folks  have  traveled  all  over  the 
world  like  this,"  he  said,  "and  they're  great 
campers." 

When  the  time  came  to  pack  our  things 
and  put  them  in  Frankie  he  did  not  want  us 
to  go. 

"I  have  a  grove  the  other  side  of  the  house," 
he  said,  "pine-trees.  Nothin'  better  'n  pine- 
trees.  I  wouldn't  ever  let  anybody  cut  'em 
down.  You  could  camp  there  as  well  as  not. 
Just  come  and  take  a  look  at  'em." 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  i  ^^i^ 

Our  vacation  was  over  and  we  were  needed 
at  home.  Otherwise  we  might  have  stayed. 
But  although  we  could  not  do  that  we  went 
and  admired  his  "grove/'  half  a  dozen  brave 
old  trees,  strong  symbols  of  the  joy  of  his 
youth,  reminding  him  of  crisp  dawns  and  clear 
evenings  near  the  earth.  I  wondered  how 
many  of  his  neighbors  knew  what  those  pines 
meant  to  him.  Perhaps  not  a  one.  He  had 
let  us  know  because  we  could  understand. 
He  all  but  begged  us  to  stay  overnight.  When 
we  had  climbed  into  Frankie  again,  we  left 
him  standing  beside  the  stubby  hedge,  waving 
his  hat.   Said  he  to  Jim: 

**Come  again  if  you're  passing  by  this  way 
and  stay  as  long  as  you  like.  /  like  to  meet  a 
character  like  your 

And  so  we  pass  mankind  in  review  on  the 
open  road  and  are  reviewed  ourselves.  Each 
newcomer  is  a  sentry  who  cries  out  to  us  to 
halt  that  he  may  learn  our  untold  braveries, 
our  hidden  renunciations,  our  latent  gracious- 
ness  from  a  personal  radiance  evident  to  him, 
unsuspected  by  ourselves.  That  he  can  find 
these  things  in  us  is  a  cause  for  great  good 
cheer.  That  we  can  find  them,  also,  in  him, 
is  a  reason  for  the  glad  laughter  that  rises 
out  of  faith. 


[VIII] 


[VIII] 

fru-E"^  we  told  people  in  Oregon  and  Cali- 
fornia that  we  were  going  back  to  New  York 
and  that  we  expected  to  camp  out  in  the  East, 
they  said: 

"You  won't  find  the  farmers  there  Hke  the 
ones  here." 

But  we  did.  And  when  we  told  New  York- 
ers that  we  were  going  to  tour  and  camp  in 
England,  they  said: 

*'You  won't  find  the  farmers  there  like  the 
ones  here." 

But  they  were  wrong.  My  opinion  is  that 
if  we  sought  camping  sites  in  the  blue  fields 
of  heaven,  the  farmers  there  would  welcome 
us  as  they  have  everywhere  on  earth.  Per- 
haps they  would  offer  us  ethereal  butter  and 
honey  from  "the  angels'  pale  tables"  of  which 
Vachel  Lindsay  tells.  However  that  may  be, 
I  can  vouch  for  the  fact  that  the  English 
farmer  is  as  friendly  as  his  kinsman  in  our 
own  country,  and  that  is  saying  a  good  deal. 

It  was  in  early  summer  that  we  began 
to  explore  the  English  countryside  in  a  motor- 
cycle   combination    called    Rover    Chug-chug. 


158  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

Rover  was  a  veteran.  He  went  into  the  war 
in  1 9 14  and  did  more  to  win  it  than  any 
profiteer  ever  did.  As  a  result  he  was  old, 
and  often  very  tired.  But  not  all  of  the  moral 
force  had  gone  out  of  his  engine.  He  was 
plucky  and  would  die  hard.  If  he  sometimes 
behaved  with  all  the  flirtatious  uncertainty 
of  a  Don  Juan,  that  only  made  him  the  more 
attractive.  We  bought  him  in  London  for 
more  good  American  money  than  we  could 
get  for  Frankie  Ford  at  home.  All  motor 
vehicles  brought  enormous  prices  in  England 
after  the  war.  We  removed  the  upholstered 
seat  from  the  sidecar,  which  looked  like  a 
bathtub  for  a  giant*s  canary  bird,  and  we 
folded  our  good  brown  tent  and  put  it  where 
the  upholstered  seat  had  been  in  the  place 
which  I  was  to  occupy.  We  made  our  blan- 
kets into  a  neat,  compact  brown  bundle  and 
strapped  them  on  behind.  Between  the  sidecar 
and  the  cycle  we  swung  a  big  aluminum  pail 
which  held  our  small  primus  stove  and  a 
few  cooking  utensils.  Behind  Jim's  seat  on 
the  cycle  was  a  package  of  clean  clothing. 
This  load  and  our  two  substantially  healthy 
selves  we  asked  poor  Rover  Chug-chug  to 
pull.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  had  only 
one  cylinder  to  his  name,  he  usually  did  it. 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  1 59 

With  this  equipment  and  in  this  manner 
we  set  out,  going  down  into  the  southwestern 
counties.  Of  course  we  saw  the  great  cathe- 
drals and  reverenced  their  grandeur  and  their 
grace.  Of  course  we  saw  Bath  and  Exeter 
and  SaHsbury  and  Winchester.  But  of  these 
great  piles  of  sternly  worshipping  stone  let 
other  and  wiser  tourists  tell.  We  spent  most 
of  our  time  with  the  simple  folk  whose  fore- 
fathers had  built  these  mighty  churches  to 
be  a  memorial  of  their  kind  while  their  civil- 
ization endures.  The  first  farmer  with  whom 
we  made  friends  was  a  man  of  Somerset,  who 
allowed  us  to  pitch  our  tent  in  his  field  for 
two  days  and  nights  while  Jim  overhauled 
the  weary  engine  of  Rover  Chug-chug. 

This  farmer  had  a  voice  as  smooth  and 
rich  as  heavy  cream.  He  had  hair  like  sun- 
light on  waves  of  ripe  grain.  He  and  his  wife 
belonged  to  the  Salvation  Army  and  saw  little 
of  the  comforming  villagers  who  lived  near. 
They  were  as  pious  as  Father  Aeneas.  And 
they  were  very  kind  to  us  through  the  two 
long  rainy  days  that  we  spent  with  them. 
After  we  had  made  camp  and  while  I  was 
getting  supper  the  first  evening,  they  came 
over  to  see  us. 

The  farmer  was  a  man  of  few  words,  which 


1 60  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

was  too  bad,  for  his  voice  should  have  made 
him  a  bard.  A  good  lyric  would  have  been 
ravishing  in  his  mouth.  But  all  he  said  was, 
"Oh-ay.'*  He  made  it  mean  several  things. 
By  a  subtle  variation  of  sound  he  could  ask 
a  question  with  it  or  give  an  answer  or  make 
an  exclamation.  He  could  explain  his  uni- 
verse with  it.   He  hardly  needed  gesture. 

His  wife,  who  called  me  ''Dearie"  at  once, 
was  a  devoted  mother  of  half  a  dozen  children. 
They  all  lived  in  a  tiny  cottage  like  four  low 
walls  hugging  a  big  chimney.  It  was  set  in  a 
tiny  yard  walled  away  from  the  meadow. 
Inside  the  wall  hollyhocks  and  roses  crowded 
close  upon  peas  and  cabbages.  Outside,  where 
we  camped,  was  the  free  pasture  of  the  big, 
clean,  silky  cow  and  of  her  small,  absurd, 
spotted  calf.  A  pool  in  the  meadow  sheltered 
salamanders — "hevets'*  the  children  called 
them.  At  least,  that  is  as  near  as  I  can  come 
to  spelling  out  their  pronunciation.  They 
thought  that  these  salamanders  were  poison- 
ous and  were  amazed  to  see  Jim,  who  knows 
something  of  biology,  take  them  up  in  his 
hands. 

When  they  learned  that  we  loved  wild 
things  they  took  us  for  a  walk  in  their  emerald 
meadow    and    showed   us    the   sweetest   and 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  t  6 1 

happiest  thing  they  knew,  their  treasure  of 
treasures  for  the  time.  On  a  grassy  slope  the 
farmer  knelt  down  and  thrust  his  arm  into 
a  hole  which  we  should  never  have  noticed. 
With  a  look  of  shy  pleasure  he  pulled  out 
a  wild  baby  rabbit,  then  another  and  another, 
till  each  child  was  holding  one  little  furry, 
frightened,  cuddling  creature.  We  passed 
them  around,  gently  stroking  their  brown, 
downy  ears.  Then  the  Somerset  man  care- 
fully tucked  them  back  into  their  nest  in  the 
earth.  They  would  not  be  there  long,  he 
said.   Poachers  would  get  them. 

His  wife  gathered  a  handful  of  homely 
meadow  flowers  for  us  and  a  bunch  of  delicate 
knot-grass  which,  she  said,  would  be  pretty 
in  the  house  all  winter.  And  on  our  way  back 
to  the  tent,  she  stepped  into  the  tiny  cottage 
and  brought  us  out  a  roll  of  glistening  butter 
on  a  broad  green  leaf.  When  we  sat  down  to 
supper  on  the  turf  that  evening  and  saw  that 
butter  beside  our  stout  English  loaf,  we  felt 
that  the  only  proper  grace  was  the  desire  to 
deserve  it.  We  slept  one  more  night  in  that 
meadow  in  Somerset  and  in  the  morning  said 
farewell.   The  good  mother  cried  out  to  us: 

"Let  us  know  if  you  come  by  again  and 
hT'll  put  you  h'up." 


1 62  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

Her  husband,  standing  at  the  gate  and 
smiling,  said, 

"Oh-ay." 

It  was  good  to  know  that  we  had  been 
welcome  guests.  We  were  glad,  too,  that  we 
had  freed  the  family  from  the  fear  of  sala- 
manders. Every  fear  lost  is  a  faith  found, 
one  step  upward  on  the  rungs  of  the  golden 
ladder  that  climbs  into  joy  and  peace.  Per- 
haps there  was  a  spirit  in  that  pool  with  the 
"hevets'*  crying  out,  even  before  our  arrival, 
in  words  like  those  given  to  the  river  god  by 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher: 

"  Do  not  fear  to  put  thy  feet 
Naked  in  the  river  sweet; 
Think  not  leech,  or  newt,  or  toad 
Will  bite  thy  foot  when  thou  has  trod: 

"Nor  let  the  water,  rising  high, 
As  thou  wadest,  make  thee  cry 
And  sob;  but  ever  live  with  me 
And  not  a  wave  shall  trouble  thee." 

Leaving  Somerest  behind  us  after  two  rainy 
days,  we  set  out  to  see  Devon  of  the  red 
earth  and  the  lovable  sea,  Devon  of  the  nar- 
row immaculate  lanes  and  old  churches,  Devon 
of  the  brown  thatches  and  yellow  plaster, 
Devon  of  the  wild  red  poppies  and  the  creamy 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  i G';}^ 

sheep.  And  we  saw  her  in  all  her  dear,  domes- 
tic beauty,  ate  her  rich  cream  and  her  ruddy 
strawberries,  and,  in  the  course  of  time, 
arrived  at  the  foot  of  Porlock  Hill  where,  in 
so  far  as  I  was  concerned,  the  driving  trip 
ended  and  a  walking  trip  began. 

Unlike  Rover  Chug-chug^  Porlock  Hill  had 
a  reputation.  It  was  said  to  be  one  of  the 
steepest  hills  in  England.  We  had  been  ad- 
vised to  take  a  long,  roundabout  road  because 
the  short  and  direct  way  up  would  be  im- 
possible for  Rover,  Even  the  longer  and  easier 
grade,  we  were  told,  would  be  difficult.  It 
would  be  necessary  to  lighten  the  load  for 
Rover,  He  could  carry  the  luggage  or  he  could 
carry  me.   Alas,  the  luggage  could  not  walk! 

**ril  have  to  go  up  Porlock  Hill  alone," 
said  Jim.  I'll  wait  for  you  at  the  top  where 
the  road  begins  to  go  down  again." 

He  started  the  engine  and  away  he  went 
with  Rover,  I  plodded  along  uphill  on  a  per- 
fect road  which  rose  steadily,  winding  around 
the  shapely  hill,  past  hundreds  of  fine  old 
trees.  As  I  walked  Christina  Rossetti's  lyric 
of  the  hill  and  the  road  came  into  my 
mind. 

"Does  the  road  wind  uphill  all  the  way? 
Yes,  to  the  very  end." 


164  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

The  proud  old  symbols  pleased  me  more  than 
ever  before.  I  liked  the  idea  of  ascending 
to  some  far  summit  of  the  spirit.  It  seemed 
a  wiser  and  a  truer  symbolism  than  that  in 
Burns*  lovable  "John  Anderson,  My  Jo,  John." 

On  I  went.  Alone  I  reached  a  height  that 
looks  down  on  the  sea  that  England  loves. 
So  steep  was  that  hill  that  the  sea,  far  below, 
seemed  high  at  the  horizon,  as  if  it  were 
tipping  itself  toward  the  land.  It  was  calm. 
The  color  of  it  wavered  between  jade  and 
slate,  a  gray-green  mystery.  I  moved  away 
from  the  ledge  where  I  had  been  standing 
and  nearer  to  my  friends  the  trees.  I  think 
I  learned  why  the  ancient  Israelites  were 
forbidden  to  worship  in  groves  and  high 
places.  Perhaps  they  make  the  spirit  proud — 
or  dizzy. 

Then  I  wondered  why  a  glimpse  of  the 
ocean  from  a  hill  meant  something  new  to 
me  in  England.  I  had  often  looked  down  on 
the  superb  Pacific  from  the  mountains  that 
form  the  crescent-shaped  coast  line  of  Santa 
Barbara.  The  majesty  of  those  mountains 
would  have  humbled  Porlock  Hill.  I  had 
looked  down  from  them  with  joy,  but  not 
with  this  strange,  new  stirring  of  the  heart. 
Why  was  it? 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  165 

I  think  that  while  I  was  Hving  out  of  doors 
in  England  I  may  have  been  unconsciously 
homesick,  sometimes,  for  the  wild  beauty  of 
my  homeland.  In  England  man  has  reigned 
over  nature  for  generations  and  reigned 
nobly.  The  land  has  been  used  and  loved 
and  subdued  to  a  quiet  loveliness.  But 
America,  wherever  there  is  no  ''Main  Street" 
(our  conquest  over  nature?),  goes  hand  in 
hand  with  grandeur  from  zone  to  zone  and 
parallel  to  parallel.  We  have  scenery  whose 
elemental  beauty  is  amazing  enough  to  be 
perilous  if  we  were  not  somewhat  insensitive 
and  deeply  interested  in  soap,  tobacco,  and 
pickles.  Just  as  an  Englishman  might  be 
stirred  by  the  sight  of  English  flowers  in  an 
American  garden,  so,  I  think,  I  was  stirred 
by  the  elemental  beauty  seen  from  Porlock 
Hill.   It  meant  home. 

After  a  little  more  walking  and  thinking 
I  reached  the  top  of  the  hill  and  found  Jim 
and  Rover  in  good  spirits  and  willing  to  go 
on.  We  drove  on  to  Lynmouth  where  we  saw 
the  things  all  tourists  see  and  took  a  good 
look  at  the  river  flowing  out  into  the  calm 
ocean  of  jade  and  slate.  After  that  we  were 
obliged  to  separate  again. 

Lynmouth   is   built  at   the  foot  of  a  high 


1 66  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

and  perpendicular  cliff.  On  top  of  the  cliff 
is  the  town  of  Lynton.  Jim  and  I  could  have 
gone  up  into  Lynton  together  in  a  lift  which 
operates  between  the  two  towns,  but  the  lift 
could  not  have  taken  Rover  Chug-chug,  It 
is  always  despicable  to  desert  a  good  friend, 
and  on  this  occasion  it  would  have  been  un- 
thrifty also.  Jim  set  out  on  a  meandering 
road  through  the  hills  with  Rover,  I  rose  into 
Lynton  on  the  Hft  and  awaited  them  there. 

In  due  season  Jim  and  Rover  and  I  all  met 
again.  One  of  us  had  a  long  drink  of  gasoline 
and  the  other  two  had  luncheon  in  a  queer 
little  boarding  house  in  a  side  street  because 
we  were  not  courageous  enough  to  cook  or 
eat  our  own  on  the  streets  of  a  town,  nor 
presentable  enough  to  go  to  a  good  inn.  After 
luncheon  all  three  of  us  went  on  our  way, 
chugging  out  of  Lynton  on  the  road  to  II- 
fracombe.  For  a  short  time  Rover  behaved 
admirably.  Then  we  came  to  another  stretch 
of  uphill  going.    He  wheezed  and  stopped. 

"You'll  have  to  walk,"  said  Jim  to  me. 
"FIl  drive  on  toward  Parracombe  until  I  come 
to  a  place  where  the  road  is  level  or  slopes  down. 
Then  we'll  go  on  to  Ilfracombe  together." 

Jim  and  Rover  left  me  and  disappeared 
around   the  bend.    Afoot  and  light-hearted, 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  167 

but  a  little  weary,  I  trudged  along  in  the 
general  direction  of  Ilfracombe  with  Parra- 
combe  as  my  first  goal. 

"Shall  I  find  comfort,  travel-sore  and  weak? 
Of  labor  you  shall  find  the  sum." 

The  words  of  Christina  Rossetti  went  with 
me.  I  walked  and  walked.  Although  I  had 
memorized  that  lyric  in  my  youth  for  sheer 
love  of  it,  I  found  out  that  day  what  it  means 
to  learn  a  poem  **by  heart."  The  thought 
and  music  of  it  haunted  me.  No  matter  how 
fast  I  walked  I  could  not  walk  away  from  its 
analogies  and  suggestions. 

"Shall  I  meet  other  wayfarers  at  night?" 

I  wondered  what  I  should  do  if  night  came 
and  found  me  alone  on  that  strange  road  as  I 
must  ultimately  be  alone  at  night  on  the  road 
of  Christina  Rossetti.  Numerous  cars  and 
wagons  passed  me  there  in  the  afternoon, 
but  I  did  not  meet  my  fellow  wayfarers. 
Nobody  was  presumptuous  enough  to  scrape 
an  acquaintance  and  give  me  a  lift.  The 
English  are  exceedingly  well  bred. 

The  road,  like  most  roads  in  England,  was 
beautiful.  It  rose  from  a  deeply  cleft,  wooded 
valley  into  the  skyey  regions  of  what   Cali- 


1 68  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

fornians  would  call  a  mesa.  I  had  not  gone 
far  before  I  heard  a  rumbling  noise  rolling 
through  the  valley.  A  brooding  greyness 
covered  the  edge  of  the  upland.  A  thunder- 
storm was  coming.  Nevertheless,  I  was  not 
alarmed,  for  I  felt  sure  to  the  very  marrow 
of  my  American  bones  that  it  would  not  be 
the  peer  of  thunderstorms  that  I  had  lived 
through  and  rejoiced  in  at  home.  English 
weather  grumbled  along  from  day  to  day 
(when  it  was  not  smiling  genially),  but  it 
rarely  did  anything  rough. 

The  rain  began  to  fall  slowly  and  heavily 
in  big  drops  like  the  discouraged  tears  of 
gentlemanly  angels.  I  had  no  raincoat.  I 
was  wearing  a  short  woolen  skirt,  a  cotton 
jumper,  and  a  heavy,  gray,  sleeveless  sweater. 
My  arms  got  wet.  My  shoes  felt  the  slippery 
mud  of  the  road  take  on  a  new  slipperiness. 
I  walked  and  walked  and  still  that  road  be- 
haved like  the  road  of  Christina  Rossetti  and 
went  uphill  all  the  way.  No  Jim  could  I  see. 
I  wondered  whether  a  leprechaun  had  stolen 
him.  There  was  nothing  in  the  world  to  do 
but  keep  on  walking. 

The  slow  shower  became  a  vigorous  rain. 
Mobs  of  plebeian  angels  must  have  been 
weeping  the  plentiful  tears  of  some  heavenly 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  1 69 

sorrow.  My  sleeves  stuck  to  me.  My  feet 
slipped  and  slithered  in  the  mud.  My  cheap 
round  felt  hat  was  like  a  filled  sponge  on  top 
of  my  head.   On  I  went. 

After  a  while  I  heard  the  slow  pad-pad  of 
a  horse  behind  me.  I  looked  back  and  saw  a 
farmer's  high  cart  pulled  by  a  sensible  old 
nag  and  coming  along  at  a  decent  jog-trot. 
The  farmer  and  his  wife  were  sitting  on  a 
broad,  high  seat  up  in  front  under  a  mighty 
umbrella.  There  was  room  under  it  and  be- 
side them  for  a  third  person.  I  looked  up 
appealingly  as  they  passed.  They  looked  like 
kind  people.  Surely  they  would  invite  me  to 
take  the  empty  place.  But  evidently  it  was 
not  the  thing  to  do  and  nobody  English  ever 
does  anything  that  is  not  "the  thing."  They 
passed  me  by. 

Then  I  was  desperate.  We  are  bidden  to 
ask  that  we  may  receive.  We  are  also  told 
that  the  biggest  price  we  can  pay  for  any- 
thing is  to  ask  for  it.  Both  are  wise  counsels. 
I  realized  that  I  must  ask  for  a  lift.  I  ran 
uphill  after  that  cart.  I  overtook  the  old 
horse  on  a  steep  part  of  the  up-grade.  Then 
I  offered  to  pay  the  farmer  to  take  me  as 
far  as  he  was  going  in  the  direction  of  Parra- 
combe. 


170  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

As  it  happened,  he  was  bound  for  that 
village.  He  and  his  wife  kindly  helped  me  up 
into  the  empty  place  beside  them.  As  soon 
as  I  recovered  the  breath  lost  in  running 
after  their  horse,  I  explained  my  eccentric 
behavior.  I  put  all  of  the  blame  on  RoveVy 
who  had  refused  to  carry  me.  I  told  them 
that  there  had  been  no  stage  to  take  at  that 
time  and  that  it  was  necessary  for  us  to 
get  to  Ilfracombe  as  soon  as  possible  and 
that  Jim  would  be  waiting  somewhere  on 
the  road. 

We  jogged  and  we  jogged.  I  was  more 
comfortable  on  the  high  seat  under  the  mighty 
umbrella  than  I  had  been  on  the  muddy  road. 
We  went  on  silently  for  a  time.  Then  an 
idea  entered  into  the  mind  of  that  farmer 
and  fell  from  his  lips  in  innocent  speech. 

"Your  husband  wouldn^t  be  running  away 
from  you,  would  he?" 

With  humor  and  devotion  I  rallied  to  the 
defense  of  my  good  man. 

"It  seems  a  bit  queer,"  said  the  farmer. 
"Does  he  often  leave  you  like  this?" 

"Only  when  Rover  can't  carry  me  and 
we  have  to  get  ahead,"  said  I.  "The  bun- 
dles can't  walk  and  I  can.  At  home  in 
my  own   country  my  husband    and  I  camp 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  1 7 1 

together  often  and  I  always  try  to  be  a 
good  sport." 

He  probably  thought  that  I  had  chosen 
a  strange  way  of  being  a  good  sport,  but 
hke  the  other  English,  he  was  polite  about 
it.  Probably  the  thought  that  I  was  Amer- 
ican and  therefore  peculiar  just  by  nature 
and  without  being  able  to  help  it  was  a  com- 
fort to  him.  I  suppose  that  if  he  is  ever 
asked  to  describe  Americans,  something  of 
the  wife-deserter  will  enter  into  his  description 
of  the  American  man  and  something  of  the 
queer  lady  pedestrian  into  his  description  of 
the  American  woman. 

Having  imposed  myself  upon  them,  I  did 
my  best  to  be  agreeable.  I  told  them  how 
much  I  Hked  Devon,  how  beautiful  England 
seemed,  and  what  New  York  was  like.  But 
never  could  I  divert  their  minds  enough  to 
prevent  them  from  wondering  where  my  lost 
husband  might  be.  The  English  mind  seems 
to  be  immobile. 

**You're  sure  he  was  going  to  Parracombe?" 
they  would  ask. 

And  I  would  assent,  although  I  was  be- 
ginning to  wonder  whether  I  should  ever  find 
him  again.  Much  to  my  relief  I  did  spy  him 
at   last,   just    before    the    hill    sloped    down 


172  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

to  Parracombe.  Under  a  big  tree  at  the 
opening  of  a  lane  the  old  brown  tent  was 
spread  loosely  over  Jim  and  Rover,  They 
seemed  to  be  keeping  a  weather  eye  out 
for  me.  I  squealed  with  delight  and  was 
about  to  dismount,  but  Jim  astonished  my 
kind  acquaintances  by  shouting  to  me  to  re- 
main where  I  was. 

"Fve  had  trouble  with  the  brakes/'  he 
said,  "and  Fve  just  fixed  them.  They  say 
that  the  grade  into  Parracombe  is  dangerous, 
ril  go  through  the  town  with  Rover  and  meet 
you  on  the  other  side." 

The  farmer  and  his  wife  seemed  glad 
to  ascertain  that  I  had  a  real  husband, 
albeit  a  queer  one,  and  they  agreed  to 
take  me  through  the  town.  I  asked  what 
I  owed  them.  They  said  that  it  was  against 
the  law  for  them  to  accept  anything  for 
driving  people.  It  could  not  be  done  with- 
out a  license.  I  thought  earnestly  for  a 
moment  and  then  asked  if  they  had  children. 
They  had. 

"Would  it  be  against  the  law  for  me  to 
give  them  a  present?'* 

That  would  be  quite  legal. 

"Well,  then,  I  must  ask  your  help  about 
it,"  said  I.    "I  do  not  know  your  children 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  173 

and  can  not  guess  what  they  would  Hke. 
Please  buy  them  something  in  Parracombe 
and  give  it  to  them  from  me." 

All  alone  again  at  the  first  fork  of  the  road 
beyond  Parracombe  I  waited  for  Jim.  There 
would  be  no  more  hills.  I  looked  down  on 
the  quaint,  friendly  little  town  which  I  had 
left  behind  and  thought  of  all  that  must  be 
left  behind  before  reaching  the  inn  at  the  top 
of  the  hill  of  Christina  Rossetti, — towns, 
homes,  gardens,  friends,  and  Jim.  I  listened 
to  the  dry  whispering  of  a  scythe  in  a  field 
near  by  where  a  sturdy  Englishman  was 
cutting  grass.  It  was  an  eternal  music.  It 
would  go  on  when  I  had  entered  the  inn  that 
nobody  can  miss.  I  was  glad  of  that.  .  .  . 
The  storm  had  gone  and  the  sky  was  opal- 
escent with  the  fires  of  sunset.  The  coming 
of  night  was  in  the  coolness  of  the  air,  but 
the  day  was  not  yet  over.  When  Jim  and 
Rover  found  me  I  was  dreaming  of  a  day 
and  a  hill  and  a  road  beyond  time  and  space. 
But  I  had  farther  to  go  here. 

"  Will  the  day's  journey  take  the  whole  long  day? 
From  morn  to  night,  my  friend." 

We  spent  many  a  beautiful  night  camping 
on  the  English  commons,  treated  always  with 


1 74  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

courtesy  and  kindness  by  all  classes  of  people 
with  whom  we  came  in  contact.  Nor  did  we 
find  anywhere  a  dirty,  unsightly,  or  unpleasant 
bit  of  country.  Every  inch  of  rural  England 
that  we  saw  had  been  loved  so  well  that  it 
had  been  kept  undefiled.  May  travelers  say 
as  much  for  our  country  in  the  future.  They 
could  not  say  it  now. 

One  of  the  happiest  of  our  camping  places 
was  on  Sevenoaks  Common  on  the  Pilgrims' 
Way  to  Canterbury.  It  was  there  that  I 
made  friends  with  an  old  beech  tree.  It  was 
in  this  manner. 

In  England  summer  days  were  opalescent, 
softly  clouded  and  shot  through  with  light 
fire.  Life  burned  and  glowed.  The  holly- 
bushes  had  put  out  their  new  leaves,  deli- 
cately thorny,  shiny,  almost  translucent,  and 
quite  unlike  the  thick,  opaque  leaves  we  know 
at  Christmas  time.  The  wild  berry  vines  were 
blossoming.  The  ivy  had  sent  out  an  apostolic 
succession  of  new  and  sensitive  shoots  along 
the  climbing  ways  and  over  the  ground.  The 
bracken  was  uncurling.  The  trees  were  in 
new  leaf.  Many  of  them  were  not  perpen- 
dicular, but  ran  at  sudden  angles  one  with 
another  and  bent  in  several  ways.  In  the 
midst  was  the  great  beech.    In  front  of  it,  at 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  175 

a  short  distance,  so  that  we  might  look  at 
it,  we  put  up  our  tent,  while  the  soft  sunlight 
of  an  English  afternoon  fell  away  to  ghostly 
yellow  among  all  the  mingled  greens  and 
made  a  silent  symphony  of  the  colors  of  rest. 
We  ate  our  supper  and  sat  idly  watching 
day  change  to  night. 

The  night  was  a  fairy  corridor  cut  in  moss- 
agate,  misty  and  magical,  through  which  we 
moved  haunted  by  whims  and  strange  wisps 
of  thought  born  with  our  bodies  and  souls 
of  the  experience  of  our  race.  I  watched  the 
shadows  deepen  around  the  old  beech,  think- 
ing how  the  young  Shakespeare  might  have 
slept  out  in  this  same  country,  under  such 
trees,  or  how  Chaucer  might  have  walked  on 
this  very  common  many  a  time,  picking  the 
daisies  that  he  loved.  The  tree  became  a 
stalwart  Shakespeare,  a  portly  Chaucer,  a 
symbol  of  the  mellow  greatness  of  the  English 
mind  at  its  best.  If  the  leaves  of  it  had  changed 
suddenly  to  the  crimped  white  ruff  worn  by 
him  of  Avon,  and  if  he  had  spoken  to  me  of 
the  "darling  buds  of  May,"  I  should  not 
have  been  greatly  surprised.  If  the  branches 
of  the  beech  had  suffered  metamorphosis  and 
become  the  smock  that  Chaucer  wears  in  his 
portrait   in    the   National   Gallery,   I   should 


1 76  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

have  taken  it,  I  think,  as  a  matter  of  course. 
I  should  have  waited  to  hear  him  say, 

"O  yonge  fresshe  folkes,  he  or  she 
In  which  that  love  upgroweth  with  your  age, 
Repeyreth  hoom  from  worldly  vanitee, 
And  of  your  herte  up-casteth  the  visage 
To  thilke  god  that  after  his  image 
Yow  made,  and  thinketh  all  nis  but  a  fayre 
This  world,  that  passeth  sone  as  floures  fayre." 

A  Httle  later  we  decided  to  make  a  trip  to 
Edinburgh  and  left  London  for  the  North  in 
Rover  Chug-chug,  We  spent  the  first  night 
of  this  trip  on  "  'Am  Common"  (Ham  pre- 
ferred) near  Richmond,  by  advice  of  a  kind 
Bobbie,  only  to  discover  next  day  that  it 
had  been  against  the  law  for  us  to  put  up 
our  tent  there,  or  to  run  our  little  motor- 
cycle combination  into  a  space  between  clumps 
of  bushes.  Nobody  knew  that  we  had  done 
it,  however,  and  we  were  not  molested.  Nor 
should  I  have  known  that  it  was  against  the 
law  if  I  had  not  seen  a  sign  next  day  denying 
the  privilege  of  camping  to  all  gypsies  and  to 
other  peculiar  people  like  teachers  and  poets. 

The  bushes  around  us  were  furze — what 
the  friendly  policeman  had  called  "fuzz- 
bushes."  They  were  merry  with  golden 
bloom.    And  never,  even  in  California  hills. 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  177 

have  I  heard  such  a  full  chorus  of  bird  song  as 
woke  on  Ham  Common  that  morning.  Cuck- 
oos called  out  loudly,  as  they  rarely  do  with 
us,  that  summer  was  *'icumen  in."  The  larks 
and  other  English  birds  that  we  did  not  know 
tossed  carols  into  the  air  as  fast  as  a  fountain 
tosses  spray.   It  was  a  jubilant  festival. 

Leaving  Ham  Common  behind  we  went 
straight  North  toward  Doncaster,  driving  fast 
over  the  long  and  level  roads.  It  was  late  in 
the  next  afternoon  when  we  saw  a  modern 
bungalow  of  our  own  American  kind  at  the 
edge  of  a  quiet  meadow  and  near  a  small 
grassy  grove.  Jim  left  me  with  Rover  and 
went  and  asked  permission  to  put  up  our  tent 
in  that  grove  for  the  night.  It  was  most 
courteously  granted.  More  than  that,  while 
we  were  pitching  camp  the  owner  of  the 
bungalow  came  over  to  see  us,  bringing  four 
fresh  eggs  which  he  offered  us  for  breakfast 
and  for  which  he  would  not  be  paid.  He 
lingered  a  moment,  chatting  diffidently,  but 
with  interest,  and  then  he  said, 

"Pardon  me — I  hope  you  won't  think  me 
indelicate — but  you  have  been  driving  all 
day — wouldn't  you  like  a  bath?" 

It  was  too  good  to  be  true!  The  English 
are  often   accused  of  stand-offishness.    Here 


1 7  8  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

was  an  Englishman  oflFering  the  kindest 
hospitahty  of  his  home,  his  **castle,"  to  two 
strangers,  foreigners  at  that,  who  had  come 
to  camp  upon  his  property  straight  from  the 
open  road,  with  no  introduction  but  the 
smiles  upon  their  faces ! 

We  went  on  northward  through  Yorkshire 
and  prepared  to  cross  the  moor  and  enter 
Scotland  by  way  of  Carlisle.  The  rain  fell 
on  us  day  after  day  and  all  the  way,  but  we 
were  reconciled  to  that  when  we  saw  the 
most  wonderful  sky  that  we  had  ever  seen 
from  the  high  moorland  between  Bowes  and 
Brough.  On  the  day  when  we  made  this 
trip  it  was  still  raining,  or,  let  us  say  euphem- 
istically that  there  was  a  Scotch  mist.  We 
had  eaten  luncheon  at  Greta  Bridge,  at  The 
Morritt  Arms.  It  was  good,  but  cold,  and 
came  to  an  end  with  some  Wensleydale  cheese 
as  deliciously  flavorous  as  one  of  Edwin 
Arlington  Robinson's  lyrics.  From  Greta 
Bridge  we  drove  on  in  the  rain  to  Bowes 
where  the  road  began  to  wind  slowly  uphill 
for  six  miles,  and  then  down  again  for  another 
six  miles  to  Brough. 

As  we  moved  upward  with  all  the  slow 
speed  our  heavily  laden  Rover  Chug-chug 
would  make  we  looked  at  that  sky.    It  was 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  179 

full  of  brooding  life.  Valhalla  might  have 
been  just  behind  it.  Around  us  was  the  moor, 
rolling  and  dipping  in  long,  undulating  lines 
away  to  the  right,  covered  with  scrub  and 
weeds  of  kinds  new  to  us.  Across  the  road  and 
on  the  edge  of  the  moor  the  sheep,  omni- 
present in  England,  were  grazing,  their  creamy- 
wool  heavy  with  moisture.  Strange,  crested 
moor  birds  stood  near  the  road,  hunched  up 
meditatively  on  one  leg.  As  we  passed  they 
rose  deliberately  into  the  air,  crying  plain- 
tively. In  the  valley  to  the  left  grim  stone 
walls,  not  unlike  those  in  New  England,  but 
with  a  smoother  masonry,  cut  the  green  land 
into  sections.  Here  and  there  great  wisps  of 
mist  had  fallen  upon  them  and  blotted  them 
out.  Cool  air  everywhere,  moist  air  every- 
where, disturbed  air  blowing  this  way  and 
that  all  around  us!  Over  all  this  the  sky! 

The  sky  was  purple  as  heather  and  gray  as 
age  and  streaked  with  amber  and  rose  like 
an  apple  and  troubled  with  wildness  like  the 
light  in  the  eyes  of  a  cat.  It  changed  from 
moment  to  moment,  hue  sliding  into  hue, 
tone  falHng  upon  tone,  form  melting  into 
form.  Great  columns  of  white  cloud  fell  down 
and  broke  upon  the  floor  of  the  earth,  or 
were    hidden    by    rising    walls    of   amethyst. 


1 80  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

built  by  invisible  fingers.  Dusky  castles  with 
blue  battlements  reared  themselves  before  our 
eyes  and  stood  a  moment  in  evanescent  gran- 
deur, then  disappearing  in  long,  vertical  lines 
of  swiftly  falling  silver,  upon  which  the  sun, 
from  some  secret  place,  tried  in  vain  to  look 
out.  Movement  upon  movement,  glory  upon 
glory! 

I  have  said  that  we  were  wet  and  cold  and 
tired*  That  may  have  been  one  reason  why 
we  kept  silence  at  first  as  we  drove  up  the 
winding  road.  But  he  is  no  lover  of  beauty 
who  can  not  forget  his  body  momentarily 
when  his  soul  is  feasting.  We  had  also  another 
reason  for  silence — we  were  enjoying  what 
was  too  thrilling  for  speech.  We  drove  on  to 
the  top  of  the  grade.  Then,  when  the  road 
tipped  down  again,  a  miracle  happened. 

We  had  forgotten  cold  and  weariness  and 
the  unending  rain  that  beat  upon  our  un- 
sheltered faces  and  ran  down  our  necks.  We 
had  forgotten  words.  We  had  forgotten 
thought.  Without  words  or  thought  or  any 
tune  that  I  can  remember  we  began  to  sing. 
And  as  we  went  swiftly  and  smoothly  down 
into  the  valley  toward  Brough  we  were  sing- 
ing exultantly,  with  none  to  hear  but  the 
creamy  sheep  and  the  vari-colored  moor  birds 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  1 8 1 

and  that  wild  sky  and  the  unknown  gods  who 
traveled  those  hills  invisibly. 

This,  I  think,  was  taking  a  step  forward 
in  the  knowledge  of  the  absolute  and  eternal 
beauty  which  we  can  never  know  fully  in  one 
finite  life,  though  it  is  that  for  which  our  best 
selves  hunger  and  thirst.  To  the  believer  it  is 
one  phase  of  God's  existence,  this  beauty,  and 
one  way  of  his  manifestation.  It  is  at  once  a 
celestial  dream  and  a  deep  certainty.  It  is  that 
which  we  may  approach  and  touch  though  we 
may  not  encompass  it. 

What  is  given  us  is  the  privilege  of  looking 
on  small  gems  split  from  that  perfect  jewel  of 
unnumbered  facets,  of  cherishing  these  small 
particles  of  beauty  in  our  hves  and  of  telling 
others  about  them.  This  blessed  holding  and 
sharing  is  one  fulfillment  of  destiny.  It  is  what 
great  poets,  great  artists,  great  seers  have 
always  done.  It  is  what  little  poets,  little  art- 
ists, Httle  helpers  of  mankind  should  hope 
to  do.    It  is  a  high  and  honorable  task. 

The  chilly  rain  went  with  us  all  the  way 
into  Scotland.  We  kept  fairly  dry  at  night 
in  our  tent.  But  in  the  daytime  we  rolled 
over  wet  roads  with  the  heavens  open  above 
us.    Our  most  intimate  garments  were  thor- 


1 8  2  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

oughly  wet  most  of  the  time.  We  were  in 
this  condition  one  afternoon  soon  after  cross- 
ing the  border  when  we  came  upon  a  small 
cottage  near  the  road.  A  grove  near  it  looked 
like  a  good  place  for  a  camp.  Jim  got  off 
Rover  and  asked  the  people  who  lived  in  the 
cottage  whether  we  might  have  permission 
to  put  up  a  tent  there  over  night.  The  little 
woman  who  came  to  the  door  could  not  give 
the  permission  herself,  but  sent  Jim  on  to  a 
larger  house  to  ask,  with  assurances  that  our 
request  would  probably  be  granted. 

For  one  reason  or  another  I  was  left  stand- 
ing in  the  middle  of  the  muddy  road,  dripping 
at  every  crease  and  angle  of  my  apparel, 
waiting  for  Jim  to  return.  I  had  not  been 
near  a  fire  for  three  days  and  nights.  While 
I  was  thinking  about  this  sordid  fact  a  young 
girl  came  to  the  door  and  called  to  me. 

"Mother  wants  you  to  come  in  and  get 
warm  by  our  fire." 

I  went  in  gratefully  and  set  my  stiff  feet 
on  the  fender.  My  clothes  began  to  steam. 
White  vapor  arose  from  my  coat.  I  told  the 
pretty,  dark-eyed  woman  that  we  had  come 
from  far  away  New  York.  She  thought  it 
was  in  Canada,  near  Vancouver.  Her  knowl- 
edge of  the  United  States  of  America  was 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  1 83 

limited,  but  her  knowledge  of  human  needs 
and  longings  was  full  and  rich.  Quietly  and 
charmingly  she  set  the  table  for  tea,  talking 
with  me  pleasantly  all  the  time.  I  thought 
that,  since  it  was  tea  time,  it  might  be  polite 
for  me  to  suggest  departure,  but  as  I  was 
framing  a  proper  speech,  my  hostess  said: 

"Does  your  husband  take  an  egg  to  his 
tea?'^ 

They  had  been  getting  tea  especially  for  us! 
They  had  had  their  own  earlier.  Cold  and 
wet  as  I  was  the  very  thought  of  tea  came 
like  a  shock  of  swift  delight.  The  thought 
of  such  kindliness,  too,  made  it  difficult  to  say 
"Thank  you'*  gracefully  enough.  They  were 
purely  and  beautifully  hospitable  and  had 
no  intention  of  being  paid.    And  such  a  tea! 

I  had  had  tea  in  London  drawing-rooms 
with  Lady  This  and  Lady  That,  and  I  had 
enjoyed  meeting  clever  and  charming  people. 
It  had  been  very  good  tea,  too,  with  the 
daintiest  of  thin  bread  and  butter.  But  my 
Scotch  friends,  who  belonged  to  one  of  the 
oldest  and  most  romantic  of  the  clans,  had 
several  kinds  of  bread  and  butter,  scones, 
several  kinds  of  cake,  and  a  wonderful  rhu- 
barb tart.  We  might  drink  as  many  cups  of 
tea  as  we  wanted,   and  we  did.    Then   also 


184  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

there  was  the  friendliest  talk  in  the  world, 
talk  of  monuments  and  sights  to  be  seen  in  the 
neighborhood. 

By  the  time  tea  was  over  the  rain  had 
stopped — or  the  mist  had  cleared.  We  took 
leave  feeling  warm  and  jolly  and  pitched  our 
tent  in  the  grove.  In  the  evening  our  Scotch 
friends  came  to  see  us  in  camp.  They  admired 
our  tent,  our  bedding,  our  primus  lamp  for 
cooking,  and  funny  little  Rover  Chug-chug, 
Then  they  sat  down  under  the  trees  for  a 
talk. 

The  man  of  the  house,  who  had  not  been 
present  at  tea-time,  had  come  with  his  wife 
to  see  us.  They  had  brought  the  two  youngest 
children,  a  boy  about  ten  years  of  age  and 
a  girl  somewhat  younger;  lovely,  healthy 
children,  shy  as  young  deer.  It  occurred  to 
me  that  the  man  of  the  family  might  have  a 
good  voice  in  his  big,  broad  chest.  I  asked 
if  he  could  sing  and  he  admitted  that  he  could 
a  bit.  Jim  thereupon  agreed  to  sing  an  Amer- 
ican song  for  every  Scotch  song  our  host 
would  give  us.  They  took  it  turn  about  most 
of  the  evening.  Jim  sang  **Dixie,"  "Old 
Kentucky  Home'*  and  "The  Star-Spangled 
Banner''  which  they  had  never  heard.  The 
braw   Scot   sang   plaintive,   sentimental    bal- 


The  'Dingbat  of  Arcady  1 8  5 

lads,  many  of  them  quite  new  to  us  and 
quite  delightful.  One  was  about  a  coy  lassie 
who  said  to  her  eager  lover, 

"I  canna,  winna,  mauna  buckle  to!" 

I  told  our  Scotch  friends  that  the  vulgar 
American  equivalent  for  *'buckle  to"  was 
''hitch  up/'  which  amused  them  mightily. 

When  he  noticed  that  we  understood  the 
words  of  his  songs,  our  friends  asked  us  how 
it  happened  that  we  could  understand  their 
songs  since  we  did  not  speak  just  as  they  did 
and  came  from  far  away.  I  told  him  that 
educated  Americans  all  read  Bobbie  Burns. 
He  was  amazed  and  delighted. 

When  he  had  sung  everything  he  could 
think  of  himself  he  turned  to  his  son  and  heir 
and  bade  him  sing  for  us.  At  first  young 
Robbie  said,  *'I  winna."  Then  he  said,  *'I 
canna."  But  after  much  coaxing  from  his 
pretty  mother  and  a  firm  command  from  his 
sire,  Robbie  sang,  at  first  shyly,  then  delight- 
fully, with  all  the  unimpassioned  clarity  and 
grace  of  a  boy's  soprano. 

When  the  little  family  went  home  down 
the  quiet  road,  and  we  withdrew  into  the 
old  brown  tent  I  felt  that  there  was  still 
much  blessedness  to  be  told  of  mankind  to 


1 86  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

mankind.  Such  kindness  has  often  been 
shown  to  us  on  the  open  road.  I  hope  we 
have  not  abused  it.  I  hope  other  campers 
will  not. 

As  a  mere  poet  certain  things  would  be 
permitted  to  me  that  are  considered  unbe- 
coming in  the  wife  of  a  teacher.  For  instance, 
I  seldom  curse.  But  if  I  were  to  make  up  a 
curse  for  campers  who  return  evil  for  such 
good  things  given  to  them,  it  would  sound 
something  like  this.  May  fire  fail  them  in 
need  and  may  springs  be  tainted  in  the  lands 
where  they  travel,  and  may  poison  ivy  cling 
to  their  ankles,  and  may  burrs  catch  in  their 
hair,  and  may  thorns  tear  their  cheeks,  and 
may  snakes  sleep  in  their  beds,  and  may  the 
woodtick  bury  itself  in  their  flesh,  and  may 
the  mosquito  and  the  black-fly  buzz  near 
them  even  unto  the  end  of  eternity! 

Or,  if  I  were  in  a  better  mood,  if  iniquity 
were  far  from  me,  I  might  make,  instead,  a 
blessing  for  all  good  campers  who  give  joy 
for  joy  on  the  highways  and  waterways.  It 
would  be  like  this.  May  sweet  fountains 
quench  their  thirst  and  may  scented  fires 
warm  them;  may  clovers  kiss  their  feet  and 
daisies  crown  their  heads;  may  the  rustle  of 
the  brown  thrasher  wake  them,  and  may  they 


The  Dingbat  of  Arcady  187 

hear  hummingbirds  at  noon  in  the  hedges, 
and  may  the  dragon-fly  flash  bright  before 
them  by  day  and  the  firefly  at  night  when 
they  follow  the  old  trails  of  the  open  world! 

These  are  my  memories,  the  fruit  of  a  new 
hfe  not  yet  ended.  But  I  have  thought  of 
the  end.  The  thought  of  it  came  to  me  once, 
not  tormentingly,  not  even  sorrowfully,  after 
our  return  from  England,  when  we  were 
camping  in  a  cosy  hollow  at  the  top  of  a  hill 
in  New  York.  It  was  an  autumn  night  and, 
as  we  lay  still  in  the  old  brown  tent  the  smoke 
from  our  dying  fire  scented  the  air.  Death 
became  grandly  inevitable  in  my  mind,  as 
in  actuality,  and  it  was  not  altogether  un- 
lovely. 

To  give  back  to  the  earth  the  body  broken 
by  life's  hardness,  to  let  it  be  dissolved  again 
to  feed  the  roots  of  upstanding  trees  and 
through  the  roots  the  fruits  of  them — that 
did  not  seem  terrible  in  the  night.  I  ought 
to  be  glad,  I  thought,  to  be  renewed  in  such 
beauty.  To  let  the  flesh  become  a  rainbow 
would  be  good.  Perhaps  many  years  later, 
I  told  myself,  young  people  glad  of  that  into 
which  I  had  been  translated,  would  come  to 
this  very   place  to  enjoy,  with  senses  more 


1 8  8  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 

acute  than  mine  and  with  a  finer  under- 
standing, all  that  I  had  known  and  loved. 

To  scatter  abroad  over  the  world  the  separa- 
ble parts  of  my  spirit,  sparks  freed  from 
that  indivisible  flame  that  is  myself,  like 
red  leaves  in  a  wind — perhaps  that  would 
not  be  altogether  tragic  either.  My  dreams 
and  deeds,  capable  of  mutation  and  com- 
bination through  some  splendid  chemistry 
unknown  to  me,  might  yet  be  immortal  and 
indestructible  in  the  world  that  I  have  known 
and  loved.  Facing  the  firm  realities  of  rest 
upon  the  rugged  earth  had  enabled  me  to 
face  the  final  reality  of  which  we  know  little 
save  that  it  is  real  for  us  all. 

These  are  my  memories.  They  have  faces 
as  glad  as  morning,  as  profound  as  night. 
Out  of  my  life  they  look  back  at  me  with  cheer 
and  warning  and  prophecy  and  comprehension 
and  belief.  And  over  and  over  again,  silently 
but  surely,  they  cry  out  to  one  another, 

''Gloriar 

^'Gloria  in  excehis  deo!'' 


1 8  8  The  Dingbat  of  Arcady 


acute    than    mine    and    with    a    finer   under- 
standing, all  that  I  had  known  and  loved. 

To  scatter  abroad  over  the  world  the  separa- 
ble parts  of  my  spirit,  sparks  freed  from 
that  indivisible  flame  that  is  myself,  hke 
red  leaves  in  a  wind — perhaps  that  would 
not  be  altopefhpr  frao-ir  <^it-l-i^r     \^^.^  A 


I  f*f30  vv-»  o 


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